


More Than A Firebolt: What Happened When Harry Realised Sirius Black Was His Sugar Daddy

by thehousewedestroyed



Series: The Real Relationship Was The House We Destroyed Along The Way [8]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: (it doesn't go well), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bad Kink Negotiation, Brief Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter, Choking, Coming Out, Daddy Kink, Discussions of Grooming, Domestic, Everyone is overage, Gay Harry Potter, Generation Gap, Harry Potter/Original Male Character (briefly), Intercrural Sex, Intergenerational Love Story, M/M, Masturbation Interruptus, Nymphadora Tonks Lives, Outdoor Sex, Past Sirius Black/Remus Lupin, Pet Names, Praise Kink, Remus Lupin Lives, Rimming, Rough Sex, Sex Toys, Sirius Black Lives, Sirius Black/Original Male Characters (briefly), Sugar Daddy, Teasing, UST, Wrong Name During Sex, gratuitous use of petnames, it sounds insane but its actually fluff, no bestiality
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2003-06-20
Updated: 2017-07-29
Packaged: 2018-10-19 15:18:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 17
Words: 90,493
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10642545
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thehousewedestroyed/pseuds/thehousewedestroyed
Summary: Pretty much exactly what it says on the tin.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I'll be updating this once a week. The whole thing is written/drafted already, so although this is a WIP the update schedule should be steady, as I'm only editing as I go. 
> 
> Please read the tags. They apply to the story as a whole, not just the chapters which are currently up. 
> 
> For the rest of this nonsense, please see the series page.

Grimmauld Place looks, from the outside, the same as ever. The paint on the front door is peeling, the curtains are drawn across the windows, the brick walls are water damaged and the front steps are scuffed. But as he approaches, rummaging around in his jean pockets for a key and dragging his luggage behind him, Harry feels the warm relief of _home_ swell inside him. 

He hasn’t been home for months. Not since they were last allowed a break from Auror training, which was Christmas. Has it really been that long? The past three years have felt impossibly short and like a lifetime, all at once. Months of hard training blur together in Harry’s mind so that he can’t remember where one day ended and another began. But then he reaches back to try to remember how he felt those first few weeks of Auror training, barely after the war was over, barely after he had turned eighteen—and it feels like looking back through a blurred window at a different Harry. Someone out of reach. 

The front door creaks at it always has as he pushes it open. ‘Sirius?’ Harry calls out. His voice echoes up the high walls and staircases of the large house. ‘I’m home!’ 

There is no reply, but this doesn’t bother Harry. Sirius didn’t hear him, or he has gone out. Pulling his wand from his back pocket, Harry charms his luggage to float behind him as he climbs the stairs. The hallway is looking good—nothing like it had when Harry had first come here, when it had been the Order’s headquarters and Sirius had been stuck inside for months on end. For one thing, the mounted house-elf heads are gone. That makes a big difference. The wall between the hallway and the dining room has been knocked through, and the space is open and bright. Wallpaper has been stripped. Floors have been varnished, walls have been painted. 

There are photographs on the walls instead of elf heads and they show smiling, waving pictures of friends and family. 

When Sirius was exonerated, Harry had spent that summer—the summer between his fifth and sixth years of Hogwarts—mostly here. Sirius had called it tearing the house limb from limb. It was no longer cleaning: he was determined to make it somewhere they could call their own. After years, they are finally on their way there. 

Harry’s bedroom is on the second floor. He calls out again as he gets to the landing, leaning over the railing to shout up into the upper floors of the house. ‘Oy, Sirius, you home?’ 

There is a sound from the top level, a surprised _thunk_ of something knocking over and the creak of a door. Harry grins and pushes open his bedroom door, ready to just collapse on his bed and sleep for a while. 

With a soft sound, Harry’s luggage settles itself inside the door, next to his dresser. His room looks the same as he left it, right down to the half unmade bed, the clothes strewn on the floor and the glass of water on his bedside table. The only change Harry can see, which he notices with a lurch of warm surprise which never quite goes away, is a package sitting in the middle of his mattress. 

Harry tugs off his outer robes and throws them in the vague direction of the cupboard as he crosses the space to sit down on his bed. The package is wrapped in gold paper, messily done. It is large and heavy looking; a box about the size of a small suitcase. Curiously, Harry reaches out and peels off the edge of the wrapping paper. It comes away easily, Harry’s heart thudding with excitement as he catches a glimpse of what is inside. He tears the rest of the paper off quickly. 

Inside is a wooden case, carved delicately and expensive looking, which Harry immediately recognises as a set of Quidditch balls. He unclasps the lid and pulls it open to reveal the most beautiful set he has ever seen—he’s used to playing with battered old Quaffles, shining Snitches with bent wings and Bludgers which have seen better days. The balls are all immaculate. The leather on the Quaffle is shining and unmarked, deep red. The Bludger is an obsidian sphere of pitch black. And the Snitch is so delicate and intricate that it looks like nothing more than a twinkle of light even just sitting here in the case. The set has a pleasant, oaky smell that Harry associates with flying, and he breathes deeply and looks up. 

Sirius is standing in his doorway, grinning at him. ‘Hello, Harry,’ he says, leaning against the frame with his shoulder. ‘Do you like it?’ 

Harry jumps to his feet and crosses the room to pull his godfather into a tight hug. ‘Of course I do,’ he laughs. He feels Sirius' arm wrap around his back, squeezing him close in turn. After a long moment, Harry steps back. ‘What’s it for? I haven’t even graduated yet.’ 

Sirius brushes his long hair out of his face. ‘Hadn’t even thought of that,’ he says. ‘Just saw it last week and picked it up.’ 

‘Right,’ Harry replies sceptically. ‘I believe that.’

‘Guess we’ll have to find you something for graduation, now.’ Sirius strolls into the room and sits down on Harry’s bed, leaning back on his hands. ‘How was training?’ 

‘Exhausting. Brutal, actually. They had us doing tracking right up until they finally let us go late yesterday. Then we went out for drinks. I’m ready to just collapse, to be honest. Ron is pissed that he’s still got another year of it.’ 

‘I can imagine.’ Fiddling with the clasp holding the Snitch in the casing next to him, Sirius lets it out of the box and grins when Harry automatically steps forward to catch it. The flickering golden ball manages to almost vanish into the rays of sunlight streaming in through the window before his fingers close around it. The ball buzzes inside his fist. ‘Just like James,’ Sirius teases. 

Harry feels his face stretch into an even wider smile. Sirius’ eyes are twinkling as he watches Harry close the door behind him and let the snitch go again. With a series of soft, whistling thumps the ball bumps against the hard wood of the door a few times, before fluttering in the other direction toward the wardrobe. Harry tracks it out of the corner of his eyes but keeps his attention on Sirius. 

‘How is the upstairs?’ he asks. 

‘Getting there. I fixed up the bathrooms, but I didn’t want to start the rest without you.’ 

Harry laughs. ‘You could have.’ 

‘Nah, it’s our house,’ Sirius says with a shrug. He doesn’t break eye contact with Harry, his gaze steadily intense. ‘It’s good to have you home.’ 

The snitch passes by Harry’s ear with a buzz like a mosquito, and without looking at it he snatches it out of the air. It struggles inside his grip. ‘I’ve missed you too.’ 

‘Staying for long?’ Sirius asks.

Guilt twists Harry’s stomach, flipping inside him. He knows it is ridiculous to feel this way, but he always regrets leaving Sirius alone here. It’s not like it was, it hasn’t been for years. Sirius doesn’t even need to stay at Grimmauld Place, not if he doesn’t want to—but here they are, and most of the rooms are clean and bright, comfortable and easy to live in: unrecognisable. He doesn’t _need_ to feel guilty, but still, the fact is that Harry started training to become an Auror only months after the end of the war, and he hasn’t been home for more than a total of a few months in the three years since. 

It’s just… there’s always been something to do. He hasn’t had time to breathe. He hasn’t _wanted_ to breathe. 

But he wants to now. 

‘Yeah,’ he says. ‘I think so.’ 

*

 _’I think so’_ seems to the thematic phrase of that first week back at Grimmauld Place. 

From Hermione: ‘Did you do well? I mean, you passed everything, I’m sure. But do you feel like you did well?’

From Mr Weasley: ‘You’ll be taking up your spot in the Aurors soon, then?’ 

From Tonks: ‘You’re gonna be working with me, then Harry? We’ll be co-workers! We could floo-pool, if you want?’ 

And from Remus, smiling: ‘Are you ready for this, Harry? Will you enjoy it?’ 

Harry says the words so many times they start to stick on his tongue. He stumbles slightly as he says them to Remus, stuttering so that it comes out as, ‘Er, I th-think so.’ 

‘You’ll be wonderful,’ Tonks says enthusiastically. ‘I mean, your history, how could you not be? How do you keep your desk? Mine’s a shambles.’ 

The words come up in other ways, too. Ron tells him one Saturday morning, over breakfast, that Ginny might be dropping by soon, a break in the Quidditch season coming up. ‘Do you want to catch up with her?’ he asks, and Harry hears something pointed in his voice. 

‘I think so,’ Harry says, uncertainly. He has not seen Ginny for months and months. He’s not avoiding her. He’s _not_. Except for the fact that the light feeling which soared inside him when she got her place on the Holyhead Harpies and they agreed to put things on hold for as long as it took for things to settle down for both of them is starting to dip, like a broom caught in a plunging dive. 

Because it’s starting to feel like he is maybe starting to settle, and the future is looking steady and planned out, and that means… 

‘Uh, I have something to tell you, mate.’ Ron clears his throat. ‘About Ginny.’ 

Harry looks up from where he was staring at his coffee, startling. ‘Eh?’ 

‘She’s, well. She’s got a girlfriend.’ 

Inside Harry’s stomach, the nose of that plunging broom picks up, speeding towards the sky again. ‘She does?’ 

‘Sorry, I know you two were…’ 

‘No, that’s _wonderful_. Who is it? Another quidditch player?’ 

Ron scratches his nose. ‘Yeah, I think they’re team-mates. Leonora?’ 

‘Oh, yeah, the Beater,’ Harry says, thinking back to the last game he saw. ‘The tall one?’ 

Giving him a shrewd look, Ron says, ‘You’re taking this very well, Harry.’ 

‘Why wouldn’t I?’ 

‘Because—you know what? Nevermind.’ Ron laughs. He stands up, grabbing his robes off the back of his chair. ‘Dunno what I expected. You do you, mate. I better get back to the campus, heaps to catch up on.’ 

Harry stretches, the weight of completing his training lifting even further off his shoulders as he does so. ‘If you’d started at the same time as me you’d be done by now,’ he reminds Ron, smirking. 

‘If I started at the same time as you I’d have had an aneurism,’ Ron replies. ‘Some of us need some time off, now and again.’ 

‘I’m taking it now, aren’t I?’ Harry can hear a slightly moody tone in his voice, sick of being reminded, as he has been again and again for years, that his friends think he needs to slow down. He hadn’t been _able_ to, after the Battle, but no one has ever quite understood that. If he had taken time to think, to process, he’s not sure when he would have been able to pick himself up again. But he’s used to pushing through, so push through he did. 

Even now, the urge to keep pushing, keep fighting forward is itching under his skin. 

He needs _change_. 

*

Even if change is this, a deep breath after a wild storm. 

After the first week or so of being home, the lingering feeling inside Harry that he needs to get ready to _do something_ begins to loosen and fade. The concept of having weeks—months ahead of himself to do whatever he wants is so unfamiliar that it sits uncomfortably on his shoulders like an ill-fitting jacket. But for every moment of tense, unfounded anticipation, there is a satisfying breath of relief when it occurs to him, time and time again each day, that he can relax. 

He gets out of bed after ten for the first time in probably two years on the Monday after he arrives back in Grimmauld Place. His bedroom is flooded with morning light, his bed messy and warm and hard to drag himself out of. Stretching, he pulls a t-shirt on from off the floor and stands up.

The loss of Kreacher—who eventually decided that blood traitor or not, Andromeda Tonks was a more suitable recipient of his services than Sirius—means that Harry is left to his own sense of organised chaos as much as he fancies. He wanders over to the chair next to his window and picks up a pair of jeans from where they are hanging over the arm. He’s still zipping them up as he steps out onto the landing and heads downstairs to make himself a cuppa. 

‘Morning,’ he mumbles sleepily to Sirius as he passes the first floor drawing room on the way down. Sirius is stretched out on the sofa reading the Prophet. 

‘You making tea?’ Sirius calls over the back of the couch. 

‘Mm.’ 

‘Bring some up?’ 

‘Come downstairs,’ Harry counters, and hears a bark of laughter over his shoulder and the creak of the chair as Sirius gets up. 

When they are down in the basement kitchen and the kettle is on the stovetop, Sirius sits down at the wooden table, watching as Harry makes himself some toast, and says, ‘So, it’s decided then?’ 

‘That I’m gonna take some time off?’ Harry cuts a glob of jam onto his butter knife and spreads it on his toast. ‘Yeah, it feels… right. Hermione’ll kill me if I don’t, probably.’ 

‘Yes!’ Sirius punches the air, before coughing and saying; ‘I mean, I’m not gonna lie, I... like the idea. You know, the reason I fixed this place up was so that we could live here together. I wanted it to be a home for you.’ 

Harry shoves the toast in his mouth and manages to get an, ‘I know,’ out around the large mouthful. He swallows. ‘It is.’ 

It is still when Sirius smiles that he looks his youngest. The last couple of years have been particularly kind to him. His once almost skeletal face has filled out and lost most of its drawn, haggard look. His cheeks are still pinched and his large, grey eyes still hollow, but he looks healthy and rested these days. Harry can see the handsome man of his youth in his face most of the time. He is smiling now, at Harry’s words. 

‘Do you wanna go out for a walk later?’ Harry asks, once they’ve both finished their tea and Harry has had a second serving of toast. It’s a sunny, warm looking day outside. ‘Maybe down to Highbury Fields?’ 

‘Yeah, great,’ Sirius agrees—and it’s only an hour or so later, when Harry is tying the laces on his battered old trainers that he realises there has been a slight crossing of wires as Sirius comes bounding downstairs. His paws thump lightly on the soft carpeting on the stairs and his long black fur ruffles with the movement until he’s at the door next to Harry, scratching at the entrance. 

‘I didn’t mean—’ Harry laughs, but cuts himself off. What does it matter? He doesn’t mind heading out with Sirius like this and his godfather seems to enjoy it. Even with all the freedom in the world, energy still seems to build up like static inside of Sirius sometimes, and being able to run free across the park on a day like this is as good a way as any to let it off. ‘I forgot how big you are,’ Harry says instead, burying his hand in the thick fur of Sirius’s back and scratching him. Standing normally, he almost comes up to Harry’s chest. On his hind paws, he’d be taller than him. 

Sirius pushes into Harry’s scratching fingers and wags his tail. He turns on the spot and snuffles at Harry’s hands, licking them, before letting out an impatient bark. 

‘Alright, alright,’ Harry says, and opens the front door. 

Sirius bounds out into the square outside the house and runs in a few excitable circles before barking again while Harry locks the front door behind him. The day is as pleasant as Harry predicted and they take a leisurely stroll in the direction of the park. Sirius trots at Harry’s side, shaking his fur out and jokingly snapping at pigeons. 

As they walk, Harry talks idly to Sirius—tells him about Ron messing up some of his disguise training and turning his hair platinum blond for a fortnight, about Hermione’s work in the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures. He earns himself a few odd looks from passersby for talking quite so casually to the dog walking alongside him, but Sirius listens intently, tilting his head and pricking his ears as Harry talks. 

Once at the park, Harry buys himself a coffee and drinks it sitting on the grass while Sirius runs off amongst the trees, burning energy, before finally returning and flopping down on the grass next to Harry. He doesn’t object when Harry reaches out and scratches behind his ears before rubbing down his back. They stay like that for a while, sitting in a patch of shade on the slightly dew-damp grass, Harry’s fingers tangled in Sirius’s dark fur as he finishes his drink and watches the muggles around them enjoying the warm day. 

As he relaxes, Harry’s thoughts drift to what Ron had been saying about Ginny. He hasn’t mentioned it to Sirius—he hasn’t been thinking about it all that much. But quietly sitting here now, Harry feels his brows furrow as he thinks back to the conversation. Ron had been expecting… something from him. Some sort of reaction that he hadn’t given. Had he reacted wrong? 

Yes, he and Ginny had an implied agreement that if they were both single once he was done with auror training, they would consider picking back where they had left off four years ago. _Four years ago_. Harry snorts. Surely Ron didn’t really expect him to think Ginny would wait that long for him? Surely he didn’t really think that Harry would be disappointed. 

Something like a realisation shudders through Harry, and suddenly he feels tremendously stupid. Of course _let's wait until I’m done with training_ was an excuse. Of course it was a self-fulfilling prophecy of something that was never going to happen. It seems so obvious, and yet Harry—himself—hadn’t realised it. He had thought that was his genuine intention. And yet here, now, with the knowledge that Ginny is happily off with one of her team-mates, he doesn’t feel a spark of jealousy like perhaps he should. He doesn’t feel any surge from that monster that had once lurked inside his chest and growled whenever someone else so much as looked at her. No, if anything, he just feels relief. 

Huh. 

Beside him, Sirius shifts and stretches, and Harry realises that he’s stopped stroking his fur and has just been sitting completely still staring off into the park without seeing. 

He blinks, and looks down at his godfather. ‘Wanna head home?’ 

Sirius gets to his feet and shakes himself off roughly. He cocks his head at Harry curiously. 

‘It’s nothing,’ Harry says. ‘Er. I don’t think.’ 

Sirius gives him a long look which reads as skeptical even on his canine face, before trotting off in the direction of home. Harry follows. 

*

Harry hasn’t dated anyone, or so much as thought about it, since starting training. There hasn’t been time for it, he has told himself again and again. 

Is that true? Ron has managed it—with Hermione. But that’s not quite the same, Harry reminds himself. They had a solid foundation to work from. Years of friendship, an understanding of what they were both doing with their lives. Harry couldn’t have done that with Ginny. She’s barely in the country for more than a week at a time, constantly on tour, constantly flying matches. If he were to date anyone else, he would have had to start from scratch. That takes time, commitment, effort. 

Sure, he’s always found time to go out on the weekend with the other trainees and let loose. There were girls and boys there, people he could have… But it was never on his radar. 

That he’s been attracted to men has never been something Harry _didn’t_ know about himself. But it wasn’t something he ever lingered on long enough to give serious thought or consideration. It hasn’t felt necessary to explore inside himself, to probe out any sticky questions he doesn’t know the answer to, because he’s had everything he’s wanted. A path forward; his friends; and Sirius. 

It is not something Harry has ever had the words to be able to do: untangle himself. He feels as though there was a person, a version of himself, who existed before—and there is a version of himself now, and they are simultaneously worlds apart and perfectly congruous with one another. 

Harry wishes he had felt different, after. If he'd had time to think about it, to build up expectations—if he had thought he was going to live—he would have thought that he _would_ , when he was suddenly no longer a vessel for a piece of Voldemort's soul. He was, almost all his life, and then he was not.

He should have felt changed.

But he didn’t. He felt the same as ever. Harry. Just Harry. Plain, regular old Harry doing regular Harry things.

He thought, after the fact, about the other horcruxes. They were things, objects. They had histories and people inscribed notions and expectations on their form, but they were still just _things_. Things can't be good or bad or kind or cruel. They can only be used. But after Voldemort touched them, after he infected them like he had infected Harry, they stopped being neutral. They caused harm. They were corrupting and corrupted.

If he had felt lighter, maybe that would make sense. If he had felt some deep weight in him dissipate, float away. Or even if he had felt cracked and jagged like something huge had been cut and torn out of him, leaving something hollow in its wake. If he had felt any way other than exactly the same.

After the war, he had closed his eyes and tried to feel around inside himself, take the measure of where he was missing, and he couldn’t. 

Slowly, things unravelled. He found he couldn’t talk to snakes. He found his emotions, once turbulent and quick to anger, settled (although how much of this was puberty and how much of it was the state of being contaminated by a piece of a dark wizard’s soul, he’ll never know). He found his own mind to be a calmer, easier place. And he found—not with sadness, not with regret, but with a sort of slow, untidy peace—that he was no longer in love with Ginny. 

He didn’t dwell on it. Didn't try to make something new. He had his way forward, and he wasn’t interested in doing anything other than strengthening what he had already, the relationships that _mattered_. 

‘Am I gay?’ he asks Ron and Hermione. They are both at Grimmauld Place and Harry is cooking dinner, his back to them as he asks the question. But he can feel the long look they share between them. 

Hermione makes a non-committal, prompting noise and says, ‘I think you’re most qualified to give an answer on that subject, Harry.’ 

Ron is more definitive. ‘Yeah, you are, mate.’ 

Turning away from the stove, Harry looks at Ron in surprise. ‘I’m… yeah?’ 

‘Well, you’re definitely not straight.’ Ron rubs his nose. ‘I dunno. I haven’t seen you show any interest in any witches since, you know, my sister. And that was a while ago. But you eye up blokes when we’re out, sometimes.’ 

‘I do?’ Harry asks. He supposes Ron is right—they usually go out to bars with the other trainees, and they don’t hold back on the drinks. Harry thought he was maybe subtle, but, now that Ron mentions it, probably not. 

‘Do you still fancy girls at all?’ 

Harry pauses, thinking. ‘I can’t… I don’t think, since…’ He trails off, letting them think he was going to say _Ginny_. That’s the truth, anyway. He hasn’t felt that way about a witch since her, or since the war ended, since Voldemort was finally gone for good and that _something_ shifted inside him. 

‘You don’t have to worry about it, Harry,’ Hermione says with a smile. ‘However you feel, that’s how you feel.’ 

Harry turns back to the stove, stirring the sauce in the pot in front of him slowly, and says, ‘I’m gay,’ trying it out on his tongue. He grins. ‘Dinners nearly ready, who wants wine?’ 

After they’ve eaten and it’s gotten late, when they are full and have had a few to drink (and Sirius has come downstairs to join them, sitting at the other end of the long table with the rest of the wine and a novel), Hermione comes around the table to (slightly tipsily) kiss Harry on the top of his head. ‘We love you,’ she says into his hair.

‘Yeah,’ Ron says, clapping him on the shoulder as Harry stands up to see them to the door. He pulls him into a one-armed hug. ‘C’mere, mate. You’re alright.’

After they have both apparated home, Sirius looks up from his book at Harry with a raised eyebrow. ‘What was that?’ 

Harry takes the wine bottle from in front of Sirius and tops up his own glass. ‘I asked them if I was gay.’ 

Sirius cocks his head like a curious hound. ‘And what did they say…?’ 

‘Ron was pretty blunt about it.’ 

Giving Harry a long look, Sirius blinks at him, something tugging at the corners of his mouth which could either be a smile or a frown. ‘Well… good,’ he says. ‘Done. Well done? Remus had to drop that one on me, too. A bit bluntly.’ His eyes follow Harry as he sits down again. ‘Let’s go out tomorrow.’ 

‘Why?’ 

‘Because I want to spoil my godson. Do I need a reason?’ 

In fairness, he has never needed one before. Although Harry thinks he can sense something in the quick diversion of the topic, in the light tone of Sirius’ voice, he’s not going to say no. He has never said no to spending time with Sirius before, he’ll hardly start now.


	2. Chapter 2

Maybe it is weird that they always head out into muggle London when they get out. But it’s better than the wizarding world where they are both objects of endless gawking. It’s as though most people don’t remember Sirius was _fully exonerated_ from the way they whisper and stare. And Harry, well. It goes without saying. 

It is more comfortable to wander down Carbany Street and while away their time amongst people who barely spare them a second glance. Today is a pleasant, overcast day. Perfect for wandering in and out of the small, boutique clothes shops which pepper the street. 

Growing up, Harry never had the opportunity to dress himself. He always just wore whatever was hung on him and the habit stuck. In the wizarding world, robes are easy—a few plain sets of neutral robes will get you through pretty much everything, and both Hogwarts and Auror training had uniforms. 

The only times he’s ever selected his own clothes has been out with Sirius. The first time they went shopping was over the summer when Harry turned sixteen and it had been unexpectedly fraught. Sirius was clearly not anticipating Harry’s unease with shopping for himself: hell, _Harry_ hadn’t anticipated it. They had gone into Camden because Sirius enjoyed the market. It had not been long after Sirius was finally given freedom to leave Grimmauld Place at his leisure, so he had been thrilled by the crowds and the busy atmosphere. Harry liked it as well, but when Sirius had said ‘Go on, grab anything you like, it's on me’, Harry's heart had thudded and it became impossible to choose anything. 

He was used to shopping for things he needed. He was used to buying wizarding treats and trinkets for himself with his own gold. But this was different: this was Sirius' money and it was something for which he had no idea how to make decisions. What sort of clothes did he like? What sort of clothes did Sirius want him to like? What would he be comfortable in? Was there anything off limits? Was he just expected to stock up on plain t-shirts and jeans? Would he look stupid?

It had been paralyzing. Eventually, Sirius had caught onto Harry's quiet struggle. He had felt awful, genuinely having no idea that this could ever have been an issue. He had apologised profusely—too much, really—and taken Harry to a slow stall. ‘Let's find some stuff together,’ he said, and held up a light, black blazer lined with red tartan. ‘Your dad would have liked this,’ he laughed, and so they ended up buying it.

These days, the experience is less painful. Harry still tends to default to the same things. Loose jumpers and baggy jeans, soft t-shirts and trainers. Not for any reason save general comfort. He does wish he could be a bit more put together. Not like, Gilderoy Lockheart or anything. Just, less like a boy who grew up in hand-me-downs and a cupboard. But Sirius helps with this. 

‘Let’s go in here,’ Sirius says, cocking his head in the direction of the kind of small, sparsely decorated hole-in-the-wall shop selling things so distressed looking that it must be absurdly expensive. He has an arm thrown around Harry’s shoulders—a comfortable and familiar gesture—and they’re both sipping at iced teas as they stroll down the street. 

Harry laughs. ‘What on earth are we going to buy in there? Look at that stuff. It’s fancy.’ 

‘Sometimes you need fancy clothes,’ Sirius says sagely, shrugging. ‘Not that fancy anyway. Look, they have jeans. You need jeans.’ 

Harry allows himself be led into the shop. It is a narrow room with a couple of racks of clothes against each wall. At the back of the shop is a plain counter. A girl is leaning against it reading a magazine, and looks up to grin at them as they come inside. Sirius unslings his arm from around Harry’s shoulders as they pass through the door, ruffling his hair as he does so, so that it looks even more flyaway than usual. 

Automatically, Harry goes to flatten it, but lets his hand drop. 

‘Okay, _now_ I must be getting old. I don’t understand this at all, and I _like_ muggle things,’ Sirius jokes in a low voice, pulling a pair of distressed jeans off the rack and looking at them. There seem to be at least three or four different types of denim represented on the pants, a patchwork of shredding and mismatched texture. He glances at the price tag, and Harry sees his eyes go wide. 

‘How much are they?’ 

‘Do you like them?’

Harry grins. ‘Kinda, actually. They look worse off them mine.’ 

‘Then they’re yours.’ Sirius throws them over his arm and ducks out of the way when Harry tries to grab them to look at a price. He takes a laughing step back and points back at the rack. ‘Look, there’s a matching jacket! We’re getting you that too.’ 

Harry tries to make a snatch for the jacket before Sirius can get it, but it jumps into his godfather’s outstretched hand of its own accord. The magic is subtle; Harry glances over at the muggle a few feet away. She is, thankfully, still flipping through the pages of her magazine and hasn’t seemed to notice. 

Harry gives up. Trying to stop Sirius buying him anything he takes a fancy to has long since proved itself to be a losing battle. ‘Alright, alright,’ he says. ‘But I like this t-shirt more.’ 

‘Well, you can have that too.’ 

They don’t spend too long in the store. There isn’t a whole lot of it to look through and Sirius is very insistent about buying Harry everything he takes even a slight shine to, so they end up with a very respectable pile of jeans, jackets, shirts and jumpers. 

Harry finds himself flushing slightly as they approach the counter. No matter what, he never quite gets used to having whatever he wants just given to him by Sirius, with no expectation of anything in return. It’s been going on for years, like clockwork. But it still seems special, unexpected. 

The girl flips her magazine closed and slides over to the register, adding up the pile of clothes. It takes her a few moments, long nails tapping on a calculator before she looks up and says, ‘That’ll be £960.20.’ 

Harry, who is in the middle of taking a slurping mouthful of his nearly empty ice-tea, almost spitakes. The cool drink catches in the back of his throat and burns up into his nose and, with difficulty, he chokes down on spitting it all over the counter. Without even blinking, Sirius just pulls out his wallet and counts out some muggle cash, thumbing through the notes lazily. 

‘Did you say nine hundred and sixty _pounds_ ,’ Harry splutters at the girl ringing them up. 

She just laughs. ‘Unless the currency changed without my knowing.’ 

‘Relax, Harry,’ Sirius says, double checking he’s counted out enough money. They spend plenty of time in muggle London, but he still fumbles with the currency sometimes, like most wizards.

‘Sirius, that’s too much,’ Harry protests. ‘Seriously, I don’t-’ 

‘Nah, it’s fine.’ Sirius elbows him and hands over the money. The girl takes it, dings open the register and starts packing their clothes into a carry bag. ‘I want to get them for you.’ 

Harry takes a deep breath. When the girl holds the bag out to him with a cocked eyebrow, he takes it, shaking his head. Then he rolls his eyes, and says to Sirius dryly, ‘Thanks _daddy_.’ 

Sirius snorts in the back of his throat before coughing and spluttering, his cheeks colouring rapidly. Harry smirks, having gotten the reaction he wanted. Sirius likes to spoil Harry, but it is clear enough that he sees Harry primarily as his best friend, more than his godson. Harry knows that the older he gets, the less likely it is that people around them will assume Sirius is his guardian, which is why it is funny to tease Sirius with it:

It makes him feel old. 

At least, that’s why Harry assumes Sirius is choking and flushing—until the girl behind the counter laughs and winks at Harry. ‘I should get me one like that,’ she says. 

Harry looks at her quizzically. ‘What do you mean?’ 

Recovering enough to rasp out words, Sirius interrupts quickly to butt in: ‘Come on Harry, let’s go.’ 

‘I mean a nice older bloke who’ll shower me in presents,’ says the shopgirl. 

‘Oh, I— _No_.’ It’s Harry’s turn to blush, startled. ‘No, he’s literally, he’s my godfa-’ 

‘Let’s go!’ Sirius says again, tugging Harry by the elbow in the direction of the door. Harry stumbles after him, still trying to get out an explanation. As they move away from the counter he hears Sirius mutter, ‘What's that spell that opens up the ground beneath you again? Obra… Obris? Something like that…’ He seems like he’s on the verge of casting it, fingers twitching towards where his wand is hidden at the back of his jeans.

‘Just do it, yeah, please,’ Harry replies, as they step outside the shop and back in the bustling street. Sirius lets him go and Harry immediately buries his face in his hands, laughing a touch hysterically. The bag of clothes is hanging from Harry’s elbow, heavy and digging into his skin. 

‘Merlin,’ Sirius says faintly. 

Peeking through his fingers, Harry sees Sirius running his hand through his long hair, tugging it away from his face and blinking rapidly. He seems to be at a loss for words. ‘Should we… go somewhere for lunch?’ 

Harry rubs his face and pulls briefly at his own hair before letting his hands drop to his side, still chuckling in disbelief. ‘Did she think we were…?’ 

‘What do you think?’ Sirius chucks his empty drink at a nearby bin. It clatters around the rim before falling neatly in. He raises an eyebrow sidelong at Harry. ‘And whose fault is that?’ 

‘I was joking!’ Harry replies indignantly. ‘I was making a joke!’ 

‘Yeah, I know. But, fuck, Harry. Come on.’ 

‘Hey, shut up. You’re the one who spent nearly a thousand quid buying me some t-shirts.’ 

Sirius groans, conceding the point. Still looking flustered, he begins to wander in the direction of a nearby upscale pub and Harry follows. He notices, as they walk, that Sirius doesn’t throw his arm back around Harry’s shoulders as he had before. ‘Well, no-one can claim I don’t look after my godson.’ 

Harry bumps his shoulder against Sirius' arm. ‘If not your family fortune.’ 

‘Throwing that away is just a side benefit.’ 

As they walk, Harry looks around, glancing at muggles passing them by. It’s funny—he and Sirius have never looked related. They may both be wiry with black hair and brown skin, but their features and complexions are very different. Still, when Harry was visibly a kid, people would look at Sirius with him and say ‘Is that your uncle?’ or similar. Always an assumption that they were family of some description. But now that Harry is no longer a teenager…

‘Do people often think that about us?’ he asks Sirius. 

His godfather freezes, hand on the door to the pub, halfway to pushing it open. He looks at Harry over his shoulder. After a short moment, however, he grins haltingly and says, ‘Who cares?’ 

Who cares what people think about them? Harry looks down at his shoes as he follows Sirius upstairs. Is that what he is suggesting? That it doesn’t matter if people think they are—a couple? Harry considers it. They move through the wizarding world constantly gawped at for being the saviour of the wizarding world and a renowned mass murderer. Surely it’s no worse to have a few people look at them and misread their relationship?

The restaurant is at the top of a narrow flight of stairs. As they climb, Harry feels his stomach growl. It’s well past lunchtime and the place is almost empty. They sit at a tall table next to an open window, where the sounds of people talking and shopping on the street below carries up to them as pleasant background noise. 

As if by silent mutual agreement, both of them very deliberately change the subject. 

‘I was thinking of using the time off to get better at my potions,’ Harry says, after they have ordered a couple of beers. ‘I’m still useless. I barely scraped through that part of Auror training, but I’m going to have to get better at it at some point.’ 

Sirius smirks at him. ‘Shame that period of unparalleled excellence from school never lasted, huh?’ 

‘Well, you know, that happens sometimes. A sudden stroke of genius followed by, er…’ Harry trails off. Sirius knew about the _Half-Blood Prince’s_ book, back at the time—but Harry has never told him who it ended up belonging to. He doesn’t think Sirius would be super stoked that the book which had helped Harry so much through that year of school originally belonging to Snape. What _did_ please Sirius was the general concept of using a mysterious, unsourced book to ace potions, so Harry just left it at that. 

‘Why not use the spare bathroom on your floor?

A boy brings over a couple of pints of cool beer, placing them on the table in front of him and Sirius. ‘Thanks,’ Harry says. To Sirius: ‘What, and melt the toilet?’ 

‘No. Well. You could. But the bathtub is brass, it’s as good a cauldron as any. And there’s all that shelving for supplies.’ 

Harry laughs. ‘One day we’re going to come up with a use for every room in that house.’ 

When their meals come, Harry props his chin on his hand and eats his chicken and cider pie slowly. He watches Sirius carefully as they talk, what happened in the shop downstairs hanging heavily, but silently, between them. Now that the thought has occurred to him, Harry can’t help but think about how they might appear from the outside. Does it look like they’re on a date? 

He squints as Sirius leans over and takes one of Harry’s chips, popping it into his mouth. He is sitting back in his chair casually, looking out the window as he tells a story about some time he managed to blow up a bathtub back when he was in school and nearly took his hair off. His leather jacket is old and soft, but the black shirt underneath sits loose on his slender body, open neck low enough to show glimpses of a couple of small tattoos on his chest. His hair falls in loose dark, messy waves past his shoulders. For a moment, Harry steps outside of himself and imagines that he is a stranger looking in at them. 

Yeah, they are different ages. But Sirius is handsome—he is _handsome_ , the thought sticks in Harry’s head like a gear catching in clockwork, achingly familiar and startling all at once—and they look like an easy, comfortable couple sharing lunch. 

Something of his train of thought must show on his face, because when Sirius glances at him he says: ‘You’re not still thinking about that thing in the shop, are you?’ 

‘No, I just—’ 

Sirius looks at him disbelievingly, and Harry sighs. 

‘Fine. Yeah. A little bit. I don’t care…It doesn’t _matter_ , I just wonder if people think that we—Is that a normal thing for people to think?’ 

‘They don’t know us.’ 

‘No, exactly. That’s what I’m saying. If they don’t know us, is the way that we … are, does it look like…?’ 

Sirius swallows and frowns. Then he takes a long draught of beer, chugging it down heavily. When he puts down the pint, it is nearly empty and he is still frowning. He signals for another one. ‘Do you want, uh.’ He trails off, seeming to be looking for the right words. ‘I can try to act differently. I don’t have to touch you in public or anything if it’s going to, going to make you—.’ 

‘No,’ Harry says quickly. Too quickly? ‘Sirius, I don’t care what other people think. I was just, I mean it’s kinda funny. It had never occurred to me that people might…’ He pauses. ‘You don’t have to do anything any different. I like how we are. I know you’re there for me, just like always.’ 

Sirius' second pint arrives. He looks over it to smile at Harry. ‘Okay,’ he says, before flicking a pea from his plate at Harry’s face. ‘So stop thinking about it.’ 

*

For the rest of the afternoon, they keep shopping—but the conversation hangs heavily between them. Despite what he said, Harry does notice that Sirius puts an unusual amount of space between them as they wander the streets. The distance feels uncomfortably unfamiliar, so Harry tries to close it. He often feels like he and Sirius have their own language, and only a small portion of it is verbal. The rest is unconscious, spoken in easy looks and touch that is perfectly instinctive to them and always has been. 

But it isn’t until they are in the last shop of the day, the afternoon fading into evening as the sun lowers in the sky outside, that it clicks over in Harry’s head, exactly what the girl in the shop had been getting at and why it has given him such sudden pause. 

It hits Harry as he’s trying on an overpriced jacket, standing in front of a mirror and trying to decide whether it fits or whether he looks overdressed and stupid. The rest of the day’s shopping is stacked next to the wall and Sirius is standing behind Harry, fixing the jacket so that it sits properly. 

‘Here,’ he says, warm fingers brushing the nape of Harry’s neck. ‘Tilt your head forward for a mo.’ 

Harry does so, watching Sirius in the mirror as he adjusts the collar of the jacket. Sirius’ eyes are focused, barely looking at Harry but examining the cut of the jacket with a critical eye. ‘I don’t think it fits,’ Harry says, reaching down to do up the second button. He can’t help but feel that the crisp fabric sits too loose on him, emphasising how small and skinny he is. 

Sirius finishes adjusting the collar and slides his hands down Harry’s back, tracing the shape of the jacket. Harry goes still, sucking in a breath. ‘I think it does, look it’s just...’ Making a disapproving sound, Sirius glances over Harry’s shoulder to look into the mirror and reaches around him to undo the button that Harry just did up, bumping Harry’s hands away. ‘You don’t do that one. There, look. It’s fine.’ 

His hands are still following the line of the jacket, sliding warmly down Harry’s waist as he inspects it in the mirror. 

A couple of hours ago, Harry wouldn’t have thought twice about it. But now he can’t help but stare into the mirror, watching how close Sirius is standing behind him, the way his hands rest on Harry’s hips. He doesn’t move, just lets out the breath he was holding, meets Sirius’ eyes in the mirror and says, ‘Yeah…?’ 

He sees the moment that Sirius goes through the same mental process that Harry just did—from the way his eyes go wide and his lips part—and then how he takes a quick, almost stumbling step back. ‘It fits perfectly,’ he says, clearing his throat. ‘Trust me, it’s meant to look like that. Take it off, we’ll get it and head home.’ 

‘I’ll buy this stuff,’ Harry says quickly, removing the jacket and bending down to pick up the selection of other things he’s picked up in this store. 

But Sirius won’t hear it. Harry tries to argue: he’s bought enough things for him already today, Harry has muggle cash on him, he has his own money, really, Sirius, this is just _unnecessary_. But when they get to the counter, although Harry is faster, Sirius pushes his hands away, shouldering him out of the way and steps in to pay. For the jacket (which is positively _obscenely_ priced) and for the trousers and the shoes and for a pair of emerald cufflinks which he selects from behind the counter, overriding Harry’s objections even as the shop girl tries not to laugh and adds them to the pile. 

‘They’ll match your eyes,’ Sirius says casually, pulling out his wallet.

And this is when it hits Harry that there is a _term_ for what’s going on here. He stops objecting, then, mostly because he can’t do much more than mouth empty syllables for a few moments and feel his cheeks go hot.

They go home after that: Harry carrying a small fortune in muggle clothes, and the deep weight of a question nagging at him that he can’t quite seem to get out of his mind.

*

Once the idea has a hook in Harry, it does not let go. Is Sirius Black his _sugar daddy_? The first time that thought floats, fully formed into his head, he laughs out loud, because it is ridiculous. 

‘What’s funny?’ Sirius asks, twisting to look over his shoulder at Harry from where he is standing on top of a ladder, pulling at the edge of a hanging drape in the room they are taking apart. 

‘Nothing,’ Harry says. Then he says, ‘Careful!’ and braces his foot against the base of the stepladder as Sirius gives a particularly firm tug and nearly falls backward. The drape has not budged. ‘Permanent sticking charm?’ 

Sirius looks at the wall, confused. This room was once a study on the third floor, and the drape hangs above a high fireplace. The wooden wall is dilapidated, blasted in sections to reveal the narrow cavity between rooms. ‘No,’ he says. ‘It feels like something is… holding it in place?’ 

‘Huh?’ 

Sirius gives another firm tug, and the motheaten drape looks for a moment like it is going to come away. But it doesn’t budge. For a moment, Harry is reminded of a dog engaged in a game of tug of war—Sirius pulling forcefully at the curtain, shaking and wrenching it and some unseen force on the other side pulling right back. In the end, it stays firmly in place. 

‘Let me have a look,’ Harry says, motioning for Sirius to come down. ‘I thought we got rid of everything like this.’ 

Sirius barks out a laugh. ‘Probably never,’ he says, but climbs down the steps to make way for Harry, motioning gracefully for him to take his place. ‘Your turn, almighty Auror.’ 

Harry pulls out his wand and steps onto the ladder. 

Harry is no expert on a lot of things, least of all transactional relationships wherein wealthy, older partners buy sexual and emotional companionship from younger consorts. The idea that he is, himself, in such an arrangement is absurd for any number of reasons—not least that he is not insubstantially rich in his own right. And that he would be _here_ with Sirius _no matter what_. He would choose to live with Sirius if they were both completely broke and had nothing to their names. Sirius is, and has long since been, one of the most important people in his life. 

But the fact of the matter is that Sirius did spend approximately the cost of a month’s rent for a nice house in West Brompton simply on buying him clothes yesterday. And has spent years showering Harry with _things_ at every opportunity. 

‘Give it a tug,’ Sirius suggests. 

Harry eyes the drape suspiciously and reaches as high as he can to the topmost corner to take it down. He pulls forcefully. For a moment it seems to give, before a split-second later an equal force on the other side of the drape pulls it back. 

‘What the hell,’ Harry says. ‘Is there something behind it?’ 

‘There can’t be,’ Sirius replies, but lights up the tip of his wand and peers through one of the holes in the wooden slats to look up into the wall cavity. ‘Nothing there. Not that I can see, anyway.’ 

Harry sticks his tongue between his teeth and pulls again, quickly casting a series of spell detection charms at the drape when he feels it wrench back. ‘Uhh.’ He lets go again, wiping the thick collected dust that smothers the material from his hands on his pajama bottoms. He had barely been out of bed when he had heard a clattering from the floor above and had come to find Sirius working on this room. He’s still sleepy and stifling yawns. ‘I got nothing,’ he says. ‘There’s a spell. Dunno what it is though.’ 

‘Well that’s good.’ Sirius steps back to make room for Harry to jump off the ladder. ‘We’re not dealing with a poltergeist or ghoul, then.’ He raises his wand. ‘ _Finite Incantatum_.’ 

Nothing happens. ‘When has that ever worked?’ Harry asks. 

‘Worth a try.’ 

They spend several minutes casting a series of counter curses and anti-hexes at the drape, but the most that happens is it rustles slightly, as if in a light breeze from the closed window. 

Finally, Harry just says, ‘So, how attached are you to that fireplace?’ 

Sirius snorts. ‘Are you suggesting the old tried and true?’ 

‘There’s a reason it’s a stand by,’ Harry points out. He looks around the room. ‘It’ll go straight through into that second drawing room, that’s pretty good. It’ll just be a bit more open.’ 

‘Yeah, alright. Take a step back.’ Sirius points his wand directly at the centre of the wall, and Harry does the same. Together they shout a spell to blast it away, and with a deafening noise the wall gives out and showers them both in rubble and dust. A few slabs of plaster blast toward them and Harry ducks to avoid one that comes flying at his head. 

The drape still hangs across the now empty space where the wall stood a moment ago, fluttering gently from the blast. 

Sirius glares at it. 

‘Maybe it’s not so bad?’ Harry says fairly. The drape isn’t too ugly. It’s a bit old fashioned and in dire need of a clean, but…

‘ _No_ ,’ Sirius replies forcefully. ‘I will die on this hill, Harry. I will. Someone, some idiot in my family, thought at some point that not _only_ was it a good idea to put this up in the first place—but then decided that it must _never come down_. I can’t let that stand.’ 

Through a yawn, Harry blinks at Sirius and says, ‘Okay, fair call. But after breakfast?’ He is aware that he’s only wearing his pajama bottoms and a smile, and hasn’t even had his morning cuppa yet, which isn’t a great start to dismantling dangerous curses. 

‘You go,’ Sirius replies. ‘I’ll get started up here. Bring me up some tea. I'm not going to be beaten by a bloody curtain.’ 

Harry heads downstairs slowly, bare feet padding on the carpet in the hallways. From behind him he hears several loud bangs as Sirius renews his assault on the drape. 

He is on the first floor when the thought hooks at him again. What has got him reading into his relationship with Sirius? A few stray comments by a few strangers? _This_ is what he and his godfather are: they are comfortable, and they are close, but they are not, well... Sirius doesn’t buy him clothes or gifts or what else with any ulterior motivations, and that’s the point. 

Harry jogs down the last two flights of stairs. There is another crash from the third floor. He shakes his head as if to dislodge the thoughts. A sly little part of his brain is nudging at him, saying, _But do you like it? Do you like the attention? Do you like the idea that some people might look at you and see Sirius'—_

‘Cut it out,’ he tells himself aloud as he reaches the kitchen. 

_Why would Sirius do all this if he doesn’t want something from you?_

Harry slams the kettle down onto the bench, angry at himself. _Because he loves me_ , he reminds himself forcefully. It doesn’t have to be anything other than that. 

‘Forget about it,’ he mutters as he puts the water on to boil, and—true to form—continues to think about it obsessively for the rest of the day.


	3. Chapter 3

Hermione’s office is small and cramped but it is hard to tell how much of that is a lack of space and how much is the piles and piles of books on every surface which make everything look smaller. Hunched over a large folder full of pages of tiny writing, she doesn’t notice Harry approach and startles when he knocks on the door frame. 

‘Oh! Oh, hi, Harry—come in.’ She rubs her eyes as she gestures for him to sit in the chair on the other side of her desk. Harry does, slouching slightly and reaching out to flip over the cover of one of the books closest to him. _Rethinking House-elf Rights: A History of Wizarding/Elf Relations._ ‘Don’t read that,’ Hermione says sharply. ‘It’s apologism, plain and simple. Why are you—’ 

Harry looks at her, raising an eyebrow. ‘We were going to grab a drink after work, remember?’ 

‘Yes, but it’s only…’ She glances at her watch. ‘Six thirty. Oh, crap. Sorry Harry. I got caught up.’ 

‘No worries. What are you working on?’ 

‘Just trying to sort out a proposal for some policy guidelines on house-elf working conditions that I can get through the Department,’ she replies. Then she cocks her head, looking Harry up and down. ‘You look nice.’ 

‘No need to sound so surprised,’ Harry says. He is wearing some of the clothes he bought with Sirius the other day—a baggy pale blue denim jacket over a white t-shirt with dark jeans and leather boots. It’s nothing special, except for the fact that everything he is wearing cost a ludicrous, ridiculous amount of money and somehow that is shining through in how it sits on him. As he walked through the Ministry to Hermione’s office, he noticed people watching him closely, eyes lingering… although in fairness, that is hardly unusual. 

‘No, I just—you look very trendy, that’s all.’ 

‘Yeah, me and Sirius went shopping.’ 

Hermione breathes out a laugh, closing her folder. ‘Of course.’ She stands up and takes her coat off the back of her chair, pulling it on. ‘Oh dear, I can’t believe I worked so late. Are Neville and Luna waiting for us?’ 

‘Yeah, they’re getting started without us. Ron too busy with training?’

‘Same as you were,’ she says with a smile. ‘It’s good to see you relaxed, Harry. You and Ron both, you’ve been working so hard...’ 

‘And you’re just having a siesta in here, are you?’ 

‘Yes, well.’ Walking past Harry, she holds the door for him and motions that they can leave. ‘I’m coming out tonight, aren’t I?’ 

The bar that they are headed to is a few blocks away, in a small wizarding lane just off Diagon Alley. The evening is pleasantly cool as they walk side by side down the busy street. Harry shoves his hands in his pockets and looks up at the overcast sky, caught between dusk and night. 

‘I think I’m finally getting somewhere,’ Hermione says keenly. ‘With some of the people in my Department, that is. Heathers is ready to sign off on my house-elf policy, with only some minor amendments. The only issue is getting it through a review committee.’ 

‘Who is reviewing it?’ 

‘Well, house-elves.’ Hermione sighs. ‘It’s a bit of a hassle to tell you the truth. We’ve got to try to ensure the review is fair and impartial and actually represents their interests, but we’re struggling with finding house-elves who aren’t just going to repeat what their masters tell them to say…’ 

‘Dobby?’ 

‘We can’t just have a focus group of Dobbys. That would hardly be representative.’ 

‘Maybe parroting their masters would represent their values?’ Harry suggests and earns a fierce glare from Hermione. 

‘That is exactly the kind of sentiment we are trying to avoid,’ she snaps. ‘Besides, it’s what all the Department heads are saying anyway.’ 

‘Yeah, I see your point. Can you pass it without the review?’ 

‘Technically, but I don’t want to. That would be a bad look right from the outset…’ She brushes her hair out of her face. ‘Anyway, enough about work. How are you?’ 

Hesitating, Harry thinks back over the last few days. He doesn’t want to say anything about the thoughts niggling at him. Besides, there’s nothing to say, really. Not without sounding weird and ungrateful. ‘Good,’ he says slowly. ‘Sirius and I have been fighting a drape in the upstairs study for two days now.’ 

‘Dark magic?’ 

Harry shrugs. ‘Don’t think so. Petty magic, more like.’ He snickers. ‘It’s driving Sirius nuts. I feel kinda bad leaving him alone tonight. Hopefully he doesn’t just pull the whole room down in frustration.’ 

The bar, when they arrive, is up a rickety flight of steps in an alleyway just off St Martin’s Lane. Muggles are breezing right past it without a second glance, but it is hard to tell how much of that is magic and how much is the tucked away location. But the main room is distinctly wizardly, populated almost entirely by young witches and wizards dressed in an odd mix of muggle clothes and robes. The Weird Sisters are playing loudly throughout the room. Harry cranes his neck to see over the crowds, but Hermione spots Luna and Neville first. She waves and they head over into the corner where they are waiting for them. 

‘It’s very noisy,’ Luna says by way of greeting when Harry and Hermione pull up stools to the small round table they’re sitting at. ‘Is this a cover for something important?’ 

Harry laughs. ‘Nah. At least I don’t think so. Neville?’ 

‘Thought it could be fun,’ Neville replies uncertainly. He has an empty beer in front of him. ‘Grab a drink?’ 

‘Sure,’ Harry says. 

‘Can I have another one of these?’ Luna asks, indicating an empty glass which seems to have an entire forest growing out of the top in decoration. 

Although the bar is noisy and busy, the evening is pleasant and relaxed. Harry sips at a glass of firewhiskey while Hermione slowly drinks her butterbeer (stating that she has work in the morning). It has been ages since Harry last saw Luna or Neville. Luna has been travelling in West Papua for the past several months, documenting species of Bumblenorps... or something. Neville had started Auror training with Harry right after the war, but had decided to leave within a year and is now back at Hogwarts working as an apprentice Herbology teacher. Harry can’t help but feel mildly envious. It sounds like a good life. 

‘It’s so good to see you,’ Luna says about an hour into drinks, giving Harry a long and warm greeting hug which he returns with a laugh. 

‘How are the Bumblenorps?’ 

‘Bitey.’ She holds out her bare arm happily. It dotted with bright green, perfectly circular splotches, all the way up to her forearm. This is, Harry thinks, the first evidence that Harry has seen that these creatures actually exist, which is something of a relief. 

‘Do you need new gloves?’ 

‘Oh no, they don’t like gloves. It’s alright, they’re barely poisonous.’ She smiles dreamily. ‘They have an odd way of showing affection.’ 

‘I think that might not be affection,’ Hermione says, clearly treading right on the line of telling Luna she’s wrong about a creature which may or may not exist. 

Luna doesn’t seem phased. ‘No, it is.’ 

Harry grins into his whiskey. The night passes pleasantly, but after a couple of drinks the conversation drifts back to how _nice_ he looks again and he finds himself trying to explain why he is wearing an £95 t-shirt. 

‘It’s just a regular shirt,’ Neville says, leaning over the table to pluck at the fabric in confusion. He has had several beers now and a girl at the bar earlier bought him a shot of something, so he’s pretty tipsy. ‘Is this a muggle thing? Does it do anything?’ 

‘No, I mean…’ Harry looks down. ‘It’s very soft.’ 

‘It is very soft,’ Neville agrees, still stroking at it. 

‘What does this zip do?’ Luna asks, tugging at the zip at the neckline which tugs down to reveal… more fabric underneath. ‘Oh. Nothing.’ 

‘Yeah, no, it’s just there for, uh, no reason.’ 

Hermione is smirking into her butterbeer, watching as Neville and Luna both investigate Harry’s t-shirt from top to bottom. ‘Take your jacket off, Harry,’ Neville prompts, and with a sigh Harry removes it and slings it over the back of the chair. ‘And how much in Galleons was this again?’ 

‘About twenty Galleons.’ 

‘That’s insane.’ 

‘Yeah, I know. But Sirius insisted.’ 

Neville whistles and sits back in his chair. Luna is still pulling the zip at the neck of Harry’s shirt up and down absentmindedly while she drinks. 

Harry bites his tongue. Then, because it’s been on his mind all day, blurts out: ‘Does Sirius buy me a lot of things?’ 

Hermione looks at him curiously. ‘What do you mean?’ 

‘I mean, er, too many things? It isn’t like I need a, a new quidditch set, or all these clothes or anything.’ 

‘Have you asked him about this?’ 

‘Not really, no.’ 

‘Didn’t he get you that awesome foe-glass for Christmas in sixth year?’ Neville asks. 

‘Yeah, but that was practical, I mean, Voldemort was-’ 

‘Those things are _expensive_ though.’ 

Hermione chuckles. ‘And I mean, the Firebolt,’ she points out. 

Harry feels a lurch in his stomach. ‘Yeah, the Firebolt. And that bottomless wallet he got me for my 17th birthday, that watch, those cufflinks. A playstation-’

‘A what?’ Neville asks. 

‘It’s a muggle thing. A flatscreen tv to play the playstation on. That skateboard. That vespa!’

‘You broke your arm when you crashed that,’ Luna reminds him. 

‘Yeah, and then Sirius got me an optometry appointment and these glasses, because of that.’ Harry points at his face. ‘These were seven-hundred pounds. Then, he put a charm on the glasses to detect dark magic. Also, apparently you are meant to get your eyes tested every few years. Did you lot know that? Turns out I was really, really blind all through school.’ 

‘Do the gifts bother you, Harry?’ Hermione asks. 

‘No. Kind of? Not really, but I just… why does he get them for me?’ 

‘Because he loves you.’ 

‘And he doesn’t know how to express his emotions in other ways,’ Luna adds. 'I think. I don't know him very well.'

Harry scrunches up his face, which probably indicates that he's not that great with his emotions either. 'Nevermind,' he says.

'Are you upset?' Luna asks. 'I'm sure he would stop if you asked him to.'

'I don't want him to stop anything,' Harry says quickly. 'That's not—'

'I wouldn't either,' Neville says, glumly. 'Do you know how much Hogwarts apprentices make? It's not much.'

'You get food and lodging though, don't you?' Hermione asks, and with that the conversation drifts smoothly away from Harry. He looks down into his whiskey and gives it a swirl. The sliver of amber liquid left in the glass catches the soft light of the bar and winks at him. He sounds ridiculous, he knows, questioning Sirius' motivations for buying him these things. Does this make him unthankful? Spoiled? The fact that his friends seem unconcerned by it should be a good hint that it's time to stop lingering on it.

He downs the rest of his whiskey in one and stands up to go buy another round of drinks for the table. He has always bought stuff for his friends himself. It is a good feeling. There is nothing behind it except the knowledge that he can, and that it will be appreciated.

Later, when Hermione announces that it's definitely time for her to get home, they set about leaving and Harry has, he thinks, managed to let his stupid sugar daddy fixation drop from his head long enough to enjoy a night out with his friends.

'Oops,' Neville says as he stands up, sways, and knocks several empty bottles over. He blinks slowly. 'When did standing become hard?'

Luna laughs, a little too loud, and Hermione just says, 'Oh no.'

'C'mere Neville.' Harry ducks around the table and props him up. 'Er, you aren't apparating tonight, are you?'

'Was gonna,' Neville admits as they make their way to the door. 'Probably shouldn't, though.' He hiccups, then turns around. 'I love this song!'

'Maybe we should stay and dance,' Luna suggests.

'I'm definitely leaving,' Hermione says busily, already halfway to the door.

'Yeah, I don't think so,' Harry agrees. 'Sorry Luna. Neville, do you want to stay at my place tonight?'

'S'that okay?'

'We have like six spare bedrooms,' Harry laughs. 'It's always okay.'

Neville sways again and then slumps heavier against Harry. 'Think that's a good idea then.'

'Luna, are you okay to get home?' Hermione asks.

'Oh. Yes, I would think so.'

Downstairs, Harry gives a very tricky goodbye hug to both Hermione and Luna, still supporting Neville, who seems to be edging into sleepiness very quickly. 'Better get this one home,' he laughs as he says goodbye, and before stepping out into the muggle street both Hermione and Luna disappear with a pair of sudden cracks.

'Come on,' Harry says to Neville. 'We'll get the bus.' They'll look a bit silly, given that Neville is wearing robes, but hell, it's a Saturday night in London. They could look a lot worse.

This seems to perk Neville up. 'I've never gotten a muggle bus,' he says, stumbling along next to Harry.

'They're less exciting than wizard buses,' Harry says, which turns out to be very evident when Neville falls asleep on Harry's shoulder five minutes into the trip to Islington. Harry yawns himself, feeling pleasantly tipsy. Most of the people on public transport are muggles out on a night out just like them and the city is full of life, as always. He watches as lights flash by in the darkness, rubs his eyes when he starts to feel dozy.

After twenty minutes or so, Harry shakes Neville awake and signals for the bus to stop. They get off a block away from Grimmauld Place and walk through the quiet, chilly streets home, subdued now.

'Thanks for this, Harry,' Neville says, muffled behind the hand he has pressed to his mouth to stifle a yawn.

'Hey, anytime.' Harry pulls out his keys and opens the front door, trying to be quiet. It's pretty late—Sirius is probably asleep. He lowers his voice. 'You can have the room next to mine,' he says. 'I think that one is made up with clean sheets. Come on, upstairs. I'll go see if Sirius is still up, let him know you're here so he doesn't wake you up in the morning renovating or barking or something.'

'Barking?' Neville asks.

'Er, yeah.' They climb the stairs to the second landing, and Harry opens up the door next to his room. The last time it was used was a few months ago, when Ron stayed the night. The room smells a little musty from relative disuse, but it's still clean and comfortable. 'Oy, Neville, in here.'

Neville looks up from where he's looking around the house with interest, peering into one of the photographs on the wall. It's of Harry's mum and dad, from their school days. Sirius had found it stashed under his own childhood bed and put it up in pride of place on this level. Wandering over, Neville falls gratefully onto the bed. Harry grins and summons a glass, filling it with water with a quick _Aguamenti_. He sets it on the bedside table.

'If you need the bathroom, use the one on the far end of the hall, not above the stairs,' Harry tells Neville—although he's not sure if the words get through.

'Nufhm,' Neville says in acknowledgement, shuffling up so that he's lying in roughly the correct horizontal position on the bed. He pulls a pillow down to cuddle it. 'Goodnight,' he mumbles.

'Night Nev,' Harry says, and turns off the light. He backs out of the room, pulls the door most of the way closed, and sways a little bit as he reorients himself. Maybe he should take a sobering potion before he goes to sleep. He can't be bothered giving one to Neville—he can just sleep it off—but there are some in Sirius' bathroom upstairs.

Quietly, in case his godfather is sleeping, Harry climbs the creaking stairs. Sirius' bedroom door is wide open and the light still on, so Harry stops trying to be stealthy and calls out in a low voice, 'Hey, Sirius—Neville is staying tonight. Don't do anything noisy in the morning, alright?'

But there isn't a response, so Harry creeps closer to Sirius' room and peeks inside. It is empty, which is unusual. Harry frowns. Sirius didn't say anything about going out tonight.

Moving up the hall, Harry checks the other rooms on the level. But they are all quiet and empty. He takes a sobering potion from the bathroom and downs it in one. The effect is immediate. It settles in his stomach and the fuzzy swaying of the world fades away. Harry checks the drawing room and the kitchen downstairs, hearing Neville's snores drifting out from the spare bedroom as he descends the stairs.

Sirius is definitely not home, Harry decides eventually. Huh. Oh well. It's not against the law. He feels slightly disconcerted—usually they let each other know where they'll be. But there's nothing to be done right now. In any case, Harry is exhausted and it is edging close to two in the morning. It's time to get to bed.

Harry goes to his room and drops down onto his bed to untie his shoelaces. He gets undressed, throwing the clothes onto the chair next to his window which serves as a washing basket. Possibly he should take better care of his things if he's going to wear stuff this nice. Although he climbs into bed and closes his eyes, he does not sleep for a long while. Instead, he lies still, listening for the sound of the front door opening downstairs.

*

Harry wakes early the following morning. He jerks awake from a dream sometime before the sun rises and, although he tries to get back to sleep, he finds himself simply tossing and turning in bed for almost an hour before he finally caves into getting up.

With a groan, Harry swings his legs out of bed and pulls on a pair of pajama bottoms. He runs a hand through his hair as he wanders out onto the landing, yawning and messing it up even more than usual. He can still hear Neville snoring away in the next room, which is good. At least someone is still asleep.

Before anything else, he skulks upstairs to check if Sirius got in during the night but frowns when he sees that nothing has changed upstairs. Bedroom open. Light on.

He can't really think of another time that Sirius has stayed out all night before—but then, Harry's stays in Grimmauld Place have never been extended before. The two of them have done everything together while Harry has been here, making the most of the time they can spend together. This is different. Maybe Sirius often spends whole nights out of the house when Harry isn't around. How would he know? The thought feels unexpectedly cold as it shivers through him. 

Down in the kitchen, Harry makes himself a coffee and (for once) is awake when the Prophet arrives, so he settles down with the paper while he wakes up. He sips slowly at his bitter coffee—they only keep instant in the house, which is suddenly striking Harry as an oversight—and finishes flipping through the articles quickly.

Summoning a pencil, he is halfway through the crossword at the back of the paper when he hears the front door swing open and he looks up.

'Sirius?' he calls upstairs. There is a slight clatter as the door closes again and boots are kicked off, but a few moments later Harry hears footsteps on the stairs down to the kitchen. Sirius appears in the doorway, looking —

Well. Harry narrows his eyes, looking his godfather up and down. He is wearing a rumpled black shirt, unevenly buttoned, open halfway down his chest. His jeans are the same he was wearing yesterday and his hair is messier than usual, falling in his face. He looks tired, but he is grinning at Harry and his body is loose and relaxed. He stretches as he enters the room and throws himself down into one of the chairs at the table. Harry catches a whiff of alcohol and... something deeper.

'Morning,' Sirius says. 'Is that coffee? There more on the stove?'

'No,' Harry replies. 'Where were you last night?'

'Do we still only have granules?' Sirius asks, leaning back to scan the bench. 'We should really change that.'

'Yeah, it's pretty disgusting,' Harry agrees quickly. 'Maybe a machine?'

'Good idea.' Sighing, Sirius stands up and goes to make himself a coffee.

'Er...' Harry starts after a moment when Sirius doesn't say anything else. For some reason, he feels awkward probing Sirius for information, and trails off.

'Oh,' Sirius says, glancing over his shoulder. 'I dunno, ended up somewhere in Kentish Town. Just thought it would be good to get out.'

'Right,' Harry says, and it comes out unintentionally short. 'Yeah, of course. Same. Um, Neville is upstairs, by the way.'

Sirius cocks his eyebrow and turns away to stir coffee powder into the boiling water in his mug. 'Pulled, then?'

Startled, Harry starts to cough around his mouthful of coffee. 'No, I wouldn't—not with _Neville_! He just had a few too many to apparate home, so he's in one of the spare bedrooms.'

'I don't think I've met Neville,' Sirius says. 'But I've seen photos in the paper. He's not bad looking, is he?'

Harry lets his head fall down onto the newspaper, half-tempted to cover his ears with his hands. 'Please shut up.'

'Sorry, I just thought you might—'

'No! No, not with—And not last night. What, did you...?' The words are out of Harry's mouth before he thinks them through, and the moment they're in the air he knows for an absolute fact that _yes_ , Sirius did pull last night and it is absolutely _not_ something Harry wants to be talking about.

The thought of Sirius going out and doing _that_ with some stranger feels like something Harry hasn’t felt for years, distorted and unfamiliar. 

Fortunately, he is spared Sirius' reply by Neville coming down into the kitchen in his sleep crinkled robes.

'Um, sorry,' he says. 'Good morning, hi.'

'You must be Neville,' Sirius says in a voice which only Harry can hear the dry humour in. 'Coffee?'

'Oh, yes please. Thanks, Mr Black.'

Both Harry and Sirius burst out laughing at this. Harry feels relief and tension coil inside him at once: relief that Neville has come down and saved him from the line of discussion, and tension because... he's not sure. He just knows that he's feeling somewhat irritated at his godfather, unreasonably so, and would quite like to be able to go upstairs and back to bed so that he doesn't have to look at him.

'Call him Sirius,' Harry tells Neville. 'Please. It's weird otherwise.'

'Oh, sure.' Neville's cheeks flush as he takes a mug of coffee from Sirius, who gives him a tight smile. 

Neville doesn't stay long in the morning. He settles down and helps Harry finish the crossword while he drinks his coffee, but he has a pounding hangover and desperately needs a shower so, after he's downed the last mouthful from his mug he thanks Harry for letting him stay one more time and apparates back home.

Leaving Harry and Sirius alone in the kitchen. Harry's throat feels dry. 'You want the paper?' he asks, tossing it toward his godfather and standing up. He cricks his shoulders. 'I'm going back to bed for a bit.'

It's still very early, just gone seven-thirty, so he can sleep for an hour or so and hopefully feel less _weird_ when he wakes up.

Sirius catches the newspaper and looks at him curiously. 'Do you want to go out for breakfast later?' he asks.

'Uh.' Harry can't think of any good reason to say no. Besides, real coffee sounds good. 'You need a bath first,' he says, and watches as Sirius gives him a look which catches just on the cusp of amused and knowing.

'I'll have one,' he says.

'Yeah. Fine, then.' Harry sends his mug to the sink to clean itself. He feels guilty, but he can hear an edge of bitterness in his voice. As he walks past Sirius, his godfather rolls his neck to look at him. That earthy smell is thicker close up, and Harry knows now that what Sirius smells of is sex and cigarettes. 'Goodnight,' he says automatically. 'Morning. Er. Bed.'

'Promise I'll be squeaky clean when you get up.’

Rolling his eyes, Harry leaves the room.

In his room, he flops down onto his bed, scowling. He can't quite say what has got him so irritable. Maybe the fact that Sirius went out all night and didn't even leave a note. Yeah, he tells himself. That must be it. Anyone would worry if they came home to find the place empty with no explanation.

How hard would it be to just say a quick, 'By the way, won't be home tonight, I'm off on the pull'? Harry snorts under his breath. _At least he didn't bring them back here_ , he thinks to himself. Who was it? A muggle, by the sounds of it.

With a sigh, Harry tries to put it out of his mind and take a nap. He sets an alarm spell for an hour’s time. But the longer he lies there, staring up at the ceiling, the more evident it becomes that he's not even really trying to sleep. His mind keeps running in circles of vague annoyance at Sirius, and, totally unrelated, an itching arousal sitting under his skin.

Finally, he gives up and lets his brain switch off as he pushes his pants down off his legs and takes his half-hard dick in hand. He strokes himself slowly, distracting himself with the way the pleasure strums through his body and takes his mind away from the circles it has been swirling in. When he spills his release onto his stomach, he moans aloud. 

He does sleep after that, although not for long. He hears Sirius walk upstairs as he is drifting off, and half-listens to the bath filling and the pipes rattling in his dozing dreams.

When he wakes up, Harry goes straight into the bathroom adjoined to his room and takes a bath himself, because unlike Sirius, he's not going to just wander about reeking of getting his rocks off.

*

Harry is in a much better mood once he has a full fry up in front of him and a pot of tea. 'Have you ever heard of a Bumblenorp?' he asks Sirius around a mouthful of sausage.

Sirius, as promised, is looking clean enough now. His hair is washed, although still slightly damp. He's wearing a long sleeved dark grey t-shirt and sipping a banana smoothie. 'No?'

'Luna is studying them. I thought I was half-making them up myself when I asked how it was going, but apparently I got it right.'

'What are they?'

'No idea, that's why I asked. They bite though.'

Sirius quirks a smile. 'Good to know.' He digs his fork into his eggs and takes a bite. 'Sorry for not giving you a heads up I was going out last night. It ended up being a spur of the moment thing.'

'At least I didn't mount an early morning search,' replies Harry, keeping his tone even. 'Me and Neville hunting down the dark wizards who took you.'

Sirius snorts. 'It wasn't any dark wizards, I swear. Nice muggle bloke.'

Harry screws up his face. 'Don't tell me about it,' he says quickly, and Sirius laughs.

'Your dad always wanted details. He was a bit curious like that. Curious enough to—'

Harry interrupts him before he can go on. 'Well, I'm not curious! I don't even know what Ron and Hermione do when I'm not around. And I don't want to.'

'Is this why it took you so long to realise you were gay?' asks Sirius, and then laughs as Harry glares at him while shovelling mushrooms in his mouth. He mimes zipping his lips closed.

It is annoying what a great mood Sirius is in. And how uncomfortable Harry is with the whole line of conversation. But after Sirius shuts up about... all that, Harry begins to relax. When he’s finished his breakfast he sits back in his chair, pleasantly full and happy. He pours the last of his tea out into his mug and swallows it down.

'You want anything else?' Sirius asks.

'Nah,' Harry says, before eyeing a collection of cakes in the display counter at the front of the cafe. 'Maybe one of those creamy things? For later.'

'Anything for you,' Sirius replies and stands up. He wanders over to pay, pointing out a handful of cakes in the cabinet and getting them all packed up in a brown takeaway tray. It gets wrapped up in paper and after he's handed over cash, he brings the cakes back to Harry.

'Are all these for me?' Harry asks, surprised.

'Yeah, a bunch looked nice,' Sirius says, pulling his jacket on from the back of his wooden chair. 'Come on, I wanna go for a little walk before we go home.'

_A little walk_ turns out to be a trip to the nearest fancy homewares shop, where Sirius admits he barely knows what a coffee machine is, in practical terms, but will buy one for Harry right now.

'I hardly even drink coffee,' Harry points out, but Sirius waves away the not-quite-objection.

'Doesn't matter,' he says. He gets Harry to do all the talking as they ask a staff member to help them choose a machine, since neither of them know what the hell they are looking for. He only interrupts to insist that money is no object, so they end up walking out with a tall, sleek black machine which will look massively out of place in their kitchen.

But Harry can't help but feel the warm flush that rises inside him as Sirius buys the machine, grinning at him.

'I guess now you have something to go with those cakes,' he says as he carries it out onto the street.

Harry stammers out his thanks several times and he supposes that, if nothing else, Sirius’ _thing_ with buying Harry whatever he wants works well for cutting through any sort of mild discomfort between them. 

*

Harry locks himself up in the spare bathroom the next day, ostensibly to work on his potions. He shuts the bathroom door tight and, before he fills the cauldron/bathtub he climbs over it to open the narrow window up high on the wall to ventilate the room. The steady, high concentration work of brewing a potion seems perfect to distract himself from the steady obsessing that he would be doing otherwise.

Only, it doesn't end up quite working like that.

Harry sits on the cold stone floor, cross legged, chopping motherwort and bat spleen and crushing graphorn horn carefully on the closed toilet seat. He fills the bathtub with a spell and sets a flame to simmer beneath it, monitoring the temperature closely as he collects and prepares his ingredients. However, no matter how much he tries to focus, he can't help his thoughts from drifting back in the same direction.

Sirius had bought him a high-end coffee machine yesterday just because he mentioned at five-thirty in the morning that he was sick of instant. Harry had a mug of coffee this morning: it was delicious. The machine makes about twenty different types of drinks, most of which Harry has never even heard of before.

And then, the irritation Harry had felt yesterday when Sirius had spent all night out with someone. Was it jealousy?

His hand slips and he slices his rat spleen clean through the middle instead of slicing it into even segments. Rancid spleen juice seeps everywhere and, leaning back in disgust, Harry quickly vanishes it and starts again.

He _was_ jealous, he realises slowly. Is he so used to having Sirius' attention all to himself that he can't stand the thought of someone else having it? He pulls a face. Or, his brain hints helpfully, quietly, does he want _that kind_ of attention from Sirius too?

This time, he crushes his rat spleen in a sudden sharp movement that causes it to puncture and splurt all over his face and all the other ingredients neatly lined up in front of him.

'THIS BLASTED DRAPE,' he hears Sirius shout from upstairs, followed by several loud bangs.

' _No_ ,' Harry says out loud—although less at the fact that he's now covered in stinking rat juice and has ruined his set up for his potion completely. _He's your godfather_ , he tells himself, unmoving. There is spleen in his hair and dripping down his face, but he is just staring at the cistern for the toilet blankly, something shocked and cold edging up inside him. _He's your godfather_.

Slowly, unthinkingly, he picks up his wand in loose fingers and vanishes the potion ingredients and as much of the mess on his upper body as he can.

He swallows. Hears another loud noise from upstairs. Extinguishing the flames under the bathtub, he decides that potion making is a lost cause for today. He isn't going to be able to concentrate now. Standing up, he packs away his supplies onto the shelving on the walls and washes his hands.

He probably ought to go see what the hell Sirius is doing to the upstairs drawing room.

Feeling like his insides are wriggling with flobberworms, Harry climbs the stairs. Can he really be attracted to Sirius? That seems ridiculous and _wrong_ and _ridiculous_. Although, it might explain why he's so fixated on this thing of Sirius showering him with stuff. Maybe it's wishful thinking. Sirius is just being a regular, good godfather—looking out for him, caring for him—and Harry is twisting it to mean something it doesn't.

It's an uncomfortable thought.

He climbs up the last flight of stairs to the third level and bumps into Sirius just as he is leaving the drawing room, looking triumphant.

'Did you get the drape down?' he asks, relieved that his voice sounds mostly normal to his own ears. He feels like there has to be something about him, about the way he is standing, talking, looking at Sirius which must give his line of thinking away. But Sirius just shoves his hands in his pockets and grins.

'Nope,' he says. 'But I transfigured it.'

'We tried that already,' Harry says, surprised, wandering over to look through the open door. 'It didn't work.'

'Yeah, it wasn't very cooperative.' Sirius comes up behind Harry to lean on the wall. 'But we got there eventually.'

The drape is still hanging where the wall between the study and the drawing room used to stand. Most of the rubble from the blast is still scattered across the floor.

Harry snorts out a laugh. The drape is still the same colour and fabric, torn and motheaten. However, it now hangs like a celebratory banner between the rooms and just says, in large letters, 'F-U-C-K—T-H-I-S'.

'Nice,' Harry says. 'Very tasteful.'

'I thought so,' agrees Sirius. 'I thought it could be a feature. We'll have to build the theme of the room around it.'

'Yeah, what's that then? Peach tones?'

'I was thinking neutrals,' Sirius says. He steps into the room and looks at Harry curiously. 'Weren't you making potions today?'

'I gave up,' Harry replies. 'Had a bit of an accident.'

Sirius reaches out and plucks a piece of spleen out of Harry's hair, flicking it onto the floor. 'You've got shit on your face,' he says.

Scrubbing a hand across his cheek, Harry feels his cheeks heat. He can't help but look at Sirius for a moment, stomach flipping as he lets himself—if only for a second—think about what he had been considering downstairs. With Sirius up close, it seems both more immediate and more absurd. There is nothing different about Sirius, there is nothing different about Harry. Nothing has changed. But curiosity is prickling at Harry, and he wants to _push_ , to _test_.

'I'm gonna go get cleaned up,' he mutters after a moment. ‘Get all this gunk out of my hair.’

He hurries downstairs without looking at Sirius again and locks himself in his other bathroom. As he watches hot water pour into the tub, filling it slowly, he tries to steady the pounding feeling in his chest. 

_He’s your godfather_ , he reminds himself again. But with each repetition it seems to ring more hollow, convincing him less.


	4. Chapter 4

When he steps out into the hall, warmed through and hair damp from his bath, Harry freezes in his step. A sweet, familiar smell is floating up through the house. It reminds him of Hogsmeade weekends in winter, spent huddling from the cold in the Three Broomsticks with Ron and Hermione, and of the Gryffindor common room after a winning Quidditch match.

Suddenly forgetting his confusing angst, he hurries downstairs.

The kitchen is empty, but the coffee machine is sitting on the counter where Harry last left it. Only it is steaming slightly, and letting off little sparks of electricity which would have Harry worried if it wasn't for the crackle of magic in the air around it. There is a mug sitting ready in place under the nozzle.

The green LED display of the coffee machine just says "butterbeer". Harry laughs, and flicks through the list. Everything else seems normal—there is a setting for lattes, for a cappuccino, for black coffee. But when Harry cycles through the list, he eventually lands back on butterbeer and also pumpkin juice and, Harry notes with apprehension, something that just says "cocoa", complete with quotation marks.

Pressing the button, Harry serves himself a butterbeer. He always keeps it in the house in bottles, but there's something particularly indulgent about having it warm, frothing and steaming, that is hard to replicate at home. The machine splutters into life and starts to pour out the deep gold liquid, steam billowing out in clouds into the air and, when Harry takes the drink once the mug is full and takes a sip, the sweet, warming flavour lingers on his tongue and settles in his belly. It is perfectly sweet and nostalgic.

He takes the drink upstairs to the drawing room: the one that they actually use. To his surprise, Sirius is in there, sprawled out on the couch and apparently fast asleep—as a dog. Harry enters the room and joins him on the lounge, setting the butterbeer down on the end table by his elbow. Sirius' ears prick at the noise and the movement. His eyes blink open and he looks at Harry.

Harry isn't quite sure what prompts Sirius to transform at home. It is not exactly uncommon. The only thing that seems to consistently trigger it Sirius is being upset by something, or frustrated or angry. At those times, he'll turn into a dog to calm down or get the emotions out. Apparently it is easier that way, when his feelings are simpler and run in straight lines like a dog. And, most reliably, he transforms once a month on the full moon. Usually he joins Remus on these nights—or Remus joins him here—and they spend all night together, like puppies, playing and devouring food they probably shouldn’t eat off the floor. He transforms even if he’s not with Remus on the full moon. Harry has asked why, and received only a shrug and a ‘I promised’ in return. But sometimes he transforms for no reason that Harry can place.

It seems to be one of those times now. When Harry sits down, Sirius stretches out his front paws and turns around on the couch to rest his head on Harry's leg. He closes his eyes again.

Harry takes a sip of butterbeer. 'You messed with the coffee machine?' he asks and Sirius' tail thumps a few times against the cushions in amused affirmation. 'Thanks, this is amazing.'

Sirius lets out a happy, low bark and nuzzles his head against Harry's jeans. It is a familiar gesture. He is always affectionate when he's a dog. Usually Harry would pat him, but right now he feels a bit…weird about it. He keeps both hands on his butterbeer.

With a confused noise, Sirius twists his head to look at Harry and rolls over onto his back to expose his belly.

Although his lips twist into a smile, Harry doesn't drop his hand to rub him, even though that’s what his instinct says to do.

'It's dangerous having butterbeer in the house,' Harry says instead. 'I'm going to make myself sick, probably.' It feels a bit like suddenly being able to eat an endless supply of cake or chocolate without anyone telling him not to. A little bit forbidden. Harry takes another long gulp, and turns the television on. It is the large flat screen which Sirius bought him about a year ago.

When Harry still doesn't reach out to him, Sirius just huffs and climbs further into Harry's lap, flopping onto his side and growling every time Harry flicks to a channel he doesn't approve of.

*

'Do you wanna go for a ride?' Sirius asks a couple of days later and Harry drops his book, fumbling to catch it as he does so. 

'Huh?' He rolls over on his bed onto his stomach. Sirius is standing in the doorway, zipping up a leather jacket. He's wearing thick denim jeans and heavy boots, all in black. Harry sits up. It is getting late. The sun is setting and lavendar light casts the room into soft colours. 'Er. Your bike?'

'Yeah, I just want to get out for a bit,' he says, flicking his hair out of his face. They have been upstairs all day, cleaning out rubble and fixing the walls in the upstairs drawing room, beginning to get it into a habitable state. It has been long, dusty, stuffy work though. Harry came down here to rest, but his nose has been itching and running from the dust all evening. Fresh air would help.

'Sure.' Harry rolls again and pushes himself up off the bed, throwing his book onto his pillow. He reaches for his boots.

'Change your clothes,' Sirius tells him. 'Wear something thicker, I'll grab you a jacket and meet you outside.'

Harry shimmies out of the old, soft jeans he was wearing and into a more heavy duty pair Sirius bought him recently. He pulls his leather boots on and changes his loose t-shirt for a long sleeved one that is open at the neck. He stops himself from pausing in front of the mirror and checking how he looks. He's not getting dressed up for an evening date or anything. He runs his fingers once through his hair, realises it's a lost cause especially since they'll be on a motorbike in a moment, and dashes downstairs. He sniffles and wipes his nose on his arm.

Sirius is waiting for him in the square outside the house. He is leaning on the motorbike, looking a little dwarfed by it like he always does—but Harry knows that he can ride it no problem. The whole street is bathed in gold from the fading light of the day, sending stark shadows across the pavement.

Throwing Harry another leather jacket, Sirius swings one leg over the motorbike and pats the spot behind him, grinning. The jacket smells like Sirius. Harry pulls it on, taking a moment to take in the pleasant smell of leather, smoke and his godfather, before jumping up onto the bike behind him. It is hardly the first time Sirius has taken Harry on a ride on this thing, but it's definitely the first time Harry has felt a flutter in his stomach at the close proximity between them… or at least acknowledged it. 

'I love this jacket,' Harry says as he settles down and wraps his arms around Sirius from behind.

Sirius pulls the clutch and starts the motorbike, so that it is humming and vibrating beneath them. The feeling rumbles through Harry's body. 'Yeah?'

'Can I have one like it?'

Sirius cranes his neck to look over his shoulder at Harry. It's close enough that Harry can see every hair of his stubble and the tip of his tongue poking through his teeth as he grins in amusement. 'Course,' he says, before kicking off the bike.

The first time Sirius had taken Harry riding on the bike, it had been exhilarating and nerve wracking all at once. Sure, he'd been in the side car before. But there was something less steady about being on the body of the bike. There was also something to be said for being _in the air_. Years of Quidditch have left Harry with zero qualms about flying, and heights. But when Sirius rides the bike on the ground, through the busy, populated streets of London, it almost feels more dangerous. The possibility of crashing is more immediate and more alarming.

They don't bother with helmets. There are plenty of protective charms on the bike, enough magic woven into it that they are seriously skirting the bounds of what is allowed by law to even be riding it in public.

Harry lets out a pleased breath as the wind whips around him, picking up his hair and blowing away the stuffy feeling of the day. He is less nervous on the bike these days, but the adrenaline stays. Sirius' hair is flipping back into his face, but Harry ignores it. He clings tight to his godfather from behind and lets the hum of the motorbike and the smooth movements as they swerve through traffic rumble through him. He can feel his heart pounding, but it is indistinct under the roar of the bike.

Sirius is laughing, picking up speed. They zoom through gaps in traffic which they shouldn't be able to, and if Harry was thinking even remotely as the auror he's been trained to be, he would be telling Sirius off. Instead, he's laughing as well, watching the buildings whip by and soon, the light dancing off the Thames as they drift alongside it.

They ride for a while, until the sun has set. It is directionless. Sirius just seems to go where his fancy takes him, but eventually they end up in an open, mostly empty car park and he rolls to a stop. The motorbike goes quiet and still beneath them.

'That's better,' Sirius says.

Harry sniffs. His nose is still running—from the cold wind now less than the dust. But his head feels clearer, and the stuffy feeling of being inside all day has gone. He feels energized and free.

'Why'd we stop?'

Sirius nudges Harry back and swings himself off the bike. 'I thought you might want a turn.'

Harry laughs. 'Don't you remember the vespa?'

'That was a mistake,' Sirius agrees. 'But we've got your eyes fixed since then. Come on, scootch forward and give it a try.'

'If this goes terribly, it's your fault,' Harry says, but shuffles to the front of the bike, reaching out for the handles.

'Don't do anything yet,' Sirius says quickly. He climbs back on, behind Harry this time, and reaches around him to show him where to put his hands. 'Alright, the ignition is already on. So just, here—' He guides Harry's hand to the clutch. 'Put it in neutral, and then just flick this to the starter, yeah—that's right.' Sirius shifts behind him, and Harry feels blood pump in his ears. Sirius is significantly taller than him, enough that he can easily reach over Harry to show him what to do, his whole body pressed along his back. 'Now pull the clutch and start the bike here.'

Harry does as instructed, and the motorbike comes to life again beneath him. It feels a little bit like sitting on a hippogriff or a thestral; as though he is on some huge, unruly beast he only has the slightest hope at controlling. The bike idles and Sirius' stubble brushes Harry's cheek as he leans forward. 'Great, now, do you want to start slowly or fast?'

'Slowly,' Harry says, and Sirius huffs. 'Fine, fast.'

'Good boy.' Sirius curls his hands over Harry's left and right, on the handles of the bike. 'Alright, we're gonna release the clutch,' he says and guides Harry to slowly loosen his grip. The motorbike starts to rumble slowly forward, and Harry feels a jolt in his stomach. Sirius' other hand shifts, fingers locking with Harry's to turn his hand. 'And turn the throttle.'

The bike picks up speed as they roll across the carpark. They're not going particularly fast, but fast enough that it takes all Harry's concentration to turn the bike as they approach the fence.

'See, not so bad,' Sirius says.

'I still prefer brooms.'

'We can make it fly if you want.'

'Let's just get this down first,' Harry says, leaning his body into the turn of the motorbike. It's not too bad, he thinks as he begins to pick it up. Less stable than his vespa (but then, he did still manage to crash that), but he has Sirius behind him guiding his movement.

They do a few laps up and down the car park until Harry feels comfortable, before Sirius says, 'Let's try the road.'

'Hope you don't miss having two working arms,' Harry replies, turning the bike toward the exit of the carpark.

His godfather laughs. 'Don't worry, I've got it. Let’s go.'

The streets aren't too busy now. It is a weeknight and rush hour is well and truly over. Sirius lets Harry's hands go and settles his on Harry's hips. Without the comforting feeling of Sirius guiding him, Harry feels slightly nervous, but as they ride the feeling quickly fades to be replaced by a thrill almost, _almost_ like the feeling of flying. The whip of the wind is the same, and the way his body turns and rolls with the bike as he swerves through the streets. Sirius' legs are pressed tight against his, and his hands are right on the gap between the top of Harry’s jeans and the bottom of the leather jacket, thumbs lightly brushing bare skin.

Pleasure and joy rushes through Harry's body and he drives the bike forward. He knows the way back to Islington but takes unfamiliar routes and roads to make the ride last longer, cutting in and out of traffic at his leisure.

Eventually, however, he can't put off going home much longer and the night is getting cool enough that the wind is starting to feel unpleasantly bitter. He turns the bike into a familiar street and a few minutes later is slowing to a halt with Sirius bumping a little behind him and shifting to show him how to properly turn off the engine.

'Perfect,' Sirius says fondly and climbs off the bike. He peels off his jacket as he does so, revealing a thinning, torn black t-shirt underneath. Harry feels the loss of his presence behind him like a chill. 'Well done.'

Harry takes his own jacket off and throws it at Sirius to catch. 'That was great,' he says. 'And everyone has all their body parts intact.'

Sirius smirks. 'Mostly,' he agrees.

The next day, Harry gets back from a lunch trip to the Burrow to find a package on his bed. It's wrapped in paper, and from the size and shape Harry knows immediately what it is. He jumps onto his bed, grinning, and unwraps the leather jacket keenly. It's not really anything like Sirius'. It is brown, rather than black and crisp and cleanly cut, not yet worn into softness by years of use.

He pulls it on over his t-shirt and falls back onto the bed, tugging it close. 

*

When Harry gets to Hermione’s office at quarter-to-twelve, she’s not at her desk. He drops the bag he is carrying on her desk and throws himself into one of the chairs, keen to catch her when she gets back from whatever meeting she’s in. 

A couple of people wander past the office while he waits. Most of them pause and try to peer subtly in to see what Harry Potter is doing at the Ministry of Magic. He waves at a few, sipping from the styrofoam cup of coffee he is holding.

'Um, do you need anything Mr Potter?' one girl asks, poking her head into the office nervously.

Harry shakes his head. 'Just waiting for Hermione,' he says. 'She coming back at any point?'

'Should be,' the girl says, looking at her watch.

'Great, thanks.'

She continues to linger in the door for a moment longer, looking like she wants to say something else. Possibly ask for an autograph. Harry smiles tightly and takes another long drink from his coffee.

'Let me know right away if there's anything I can do for you,' she says eventually in a keen voice. She points down the hall. 'I'm just up there. On the left.'

Harry blinks. 'Oh, right. Sure.'

She gives him one last sunny smile and disappears.

After twenty minutes or so, Harry is left playing with the lid of his empty drink when Hermione finally arrives back in her office. She looks harassed, her hair flying everywhere and a quill sticking out from behind her ear.

'Harry!' she says in surprise when she sees him. She comes round the desk and sinks gratefully into her chair, letting out a sigh. 'I've been organising that review committee all morning. It's… a challenge. Sorry, were you waiting long?'

'Not really.' Harry points at the paper bags on the desk. 'I brought lunch, though. If you have a minute.'

'You are an angel,' Hermione says sincerely, leaning forward to unpack the takeaway boxes. They are full of Chinese from a place a couple of blocks away. 'Do you mind if I do some work on this report while we eat?'

'Er, I was hoping I could talk to you about something.'

Hermione looks up from where she is conjuring a couple of bowls and charming the takeaway to divide itself up between them. A spring roll hovers in the air, frozen. 'Is everything okay?'

'Yes! Yeah, it's fine,' Harry replies quickly. 'Just… fancied a chat.'

'Well, we can chat and eat, and I'll work on this.' Hermione pulls over a long parchment, covered in her small, neat writing and a series of graphs. The spring roll drops itself into Harry's bowl and he picks it up, crunching into it.

Harry leans back in his chair and shuts the door. Hermione raises an eyebrow at him.

'I don't really want anyone overhearing,' Harry says awkwardly.

'Are you sure nothing is wrong?'

Harry blinks innocently. 'Of course. Would I hide anything from you?'

'Yes,' Hermione says immediately. She looks back down at her report, huffs and scratches out a line. 'But it's fine. What is it?'

'It's...' Harry swallows. 'You know what I was talking about the other night, with Sirius buying me stuff?'

'Mmhmm.' Hermione takes a mouthful of fried rice, not looking up from her parchment. Harry is used to this, he knows she's listening.

Harry slumps back in his chair and stares up at the ceiling. 'This is going to sound so stupid.'

'If it's bothering you, just talk to Sirius about it.'

'No, no, it's—' Harry groans. 'I'm starting to worry—wonder—that he gets me this stuff as like, I dunno. A _thing_. Like, he's buying my affection or something.'

Hermione looks up at Harry in confusion. 'He obviously doesn't need to do that.'

'Yeah! But what if, I dunno...'

'Harry, are you feeling guilty that someone is doing nice things for you?'

'I don't think so? But look.' Harry tugs at the hem of his new jacket. 'I said to Sirius a couple of nights ago that I wanted a leather jacket like his. And yesterday I got home and this was wrapped up on the bed. And it is a _good_ jacket, it wasn't cheap.'

'Well, that's a nice thought...'

'And he bought me a coffee machine because I mentioned off hand that I was sick of instant. Like, a big shiny coffee machine. And he keeps taking me out to eat, and just...' Harry trails off, frowning. 'He gave me a bunch of cakes the other day too.'

'I really don't understand why this is upsetting you so much,' Hermione says carefully. 'I can only think that you are unused to people giving you things this much, and it's making you uncomfortable.'

'Oh, it's just that I'm not used to it?' Harry replies sarcastically. 'Who takes _you_ shopping and spends thousands of pounds on clothes for you, Hermione?'

'Well, no one, obviously, but… I'm sure...' She puts down her quill, looking at him with her full attention now. 'Sirius comes from a wealthy, pureblood family. Maybe that's what is normal for him?'

Harry shrugs. 'He left that all behind him a long time ago,' he points out. 'Ran away from home before he ever had money of his own.'

'True.'

'I'll tell you who it is normal for,' Harry says. 'It's normal for sugar daddies.'

Hermione bursts out laughing, nearly spitting out a mouthful of sweet and sour pork. 

Harry crosses his arms and glares at her pointedly, eyebrow raised.

'Oh, Harry,' she says. 'You're not seriously suggesting...'

'Tell me what I'm suggesting.'

'That, um. Sirius is trying to buy sexual favours from you with expensive presents?'

'I didn't say sexual,' Harry says, perhaps a bit too quickly. 'Necessarily. But just… companionship. And he's obviously not _buying_ anything from me, but, er. You don't think there could be anything, you know. Romantic, or, um, sexual to it? Do you?'

Hermione looks at Harry consideringly, sucking the end of her quill. 'That seems absurd,' she says. 'I don't think Sirius would ever… Yes, he sort of, well, projects some of your dad onto you, sometimes but that's, well. Your dad was his best friend. It isn't like he was ever trying to get anything like that from him. And besides, he's your godfather. He sees you as his son. He's just trying to spoil you like a dad might.'

Frowning, Harry looks down at his takeaway and takes a few bites, thinking. 'Yeah,' he says eventually. 'I'm sure you're right.'

'I can do some research into sugar daddies if you want,' Hermione offers.

'No! No, that's… really not necessary.' Harry sighs. 'Don't tell Ron any of this, okay? He would find it weird.'

'If there were anything to it, it would definitely be weird,' Hermione says. 'But don't worry. It's fine. Sirius just cares for you, I promise.' She shuffles her parchment and lifts it up. 'Now, can you read this over for me before you go? I want to make sure it is accessible.'

*

Harry tries to take Hermione's advice and put the whole thing out of his mind. And for the most part, he manages. Sirius actually takes him shopping again, down at Oxford Circus, and buys Harry more and more expensive clothes—but Harry takes it for what it is, a good day out, and commits to enjoying himself.

What he can't quite tamp down, however, is the persistent feeling inside his chest whenever he looks at Sirius which has taken to just purring happily at the sight of him. It's an odd sensation, comforting and exhilarating and discomfiting all at once.

They are back in the study on the third floor today. The rubble has been cleared out of the room and the wood panelling stripped from the walls. They are in the process of dragging all the furniture into the (now forcefully) adjoined drawing room so that they can set about plastering the walls, when Sirius pauses. He is pushing a small cabinet across the room, but he stops in his tracks and crouches down next to it, brow furrowing.

'Harry, get over here,' he says, a slight hint of urgency in his voice. Harry lowers his wand so that the chair he has hovering in front of him falls to the floor with a heavy _crunch_.

'What is it?' he asks, rushing over and kneeling down next to Sirius.

'I'm not sure.' He points at a panel in the side of the cabinet, tracing the outline of it. It isn't large - about the size of a small book - but it is clearly meant to be hidden. And it looks like it opens. 'Nothing my family tried to hide was ever good, though.'

Harry taps his wand once on the panel. ' _Annihilare_ ,' he says. Nothing happens. ' _Liberare_.' Again, nothing. Frowning, Harry sits down more comfortably, crossing his legs and works his way through all the opening and unlocking spells he knows. When he pauses, Sirius tries a couple as well—but none are effective.

'Whoever set this up locked it tight,' Harry says.

‘Do your auror curse-breaking shit then.’

Harry does. He casts spells at the little hidden compartment until, by all rights, it should give up all its secrets like someone fed Veritaserum. It doesn't.

Sirius leans over his shoulder. 'Oh well, worth a try,' he says. 'Sit back.'

Harry leans back as Sirius jams the end of a flathead screwdriver into the edge of the compartment and wrenches, hard.

'That's never going to wo—' Harry starts, before the wood splinters sharply and the door of the compartment tears away.

'Purebloods, Harry,' Sirius says. He flips the screwdriver in his hand and catches it. 'Always underestimating brute strength. Now, lets see what we've got.'

The inside of the hidden compartment is deeper than it should be, dark and hollow. But it isn't empty. Harry squints inside, and sees something—or several somethings—glint out of the darkness, like light catching on gemstones.

He moves to reach inside, but Sirius catches his wrist. 'Careful,' he says. 'You never know what else is protecting it.' He mutters something under his breath, pointing his wand at the compartment. With a wheeze like an accordion being punctured of air, a cloud of dust erupts from the cavity and a croaky, disembodied voice breathes, ' _Hands off, Walburga._ '

A shiver runs down Harry's spine. The voice sounds ghostly and unnatural, and seems to echo around inside his mind for a long moment after it's gone. Sirius, however, barks out a laugh.

'What was that?' Harry asks.

'That was my aunt Lucretia,' Sirius replies. 'She lived here after her husband Ignatius died. Not a bad sort, really, compared to the rest of them. Go on. I think you'll be alright to poke around in there.' He holds up his hand and wiggles his fingers. 'I won't risk it in case she cursed it against my dear mum's blood or something.'

Harry shoots Sirius an uncertain look, but slips his hand into the hollow and pulls out...

'Firewhiskey!' Harry announces keenly. 'Wow, this is _old_.' He turns the dusty bottle over in his hands, wiping away at the label. 'Is it safe?'

'Ay, aunt Lucretia!' Sirius says happily, taking the bottle from Harry. 'She always did enjoy a dram. She probably just hid it here to keep it away from my mum. Is there more?'

'Yeah, a few bottles.' Harry pulls the rest of the Firewhiskey out of the compartment and sets the bottles on the ground. They are all coated in a thick layer of dust, but full and sealed tight. He reaches back into the compartment and feels around to make sure he hasn't missed anything. 'Yup, that's it.'

Sirius twists the lid on the bottle in his hand, opening it. 'Summon a couple of tumblers,' he says. 'I don't usually like to drink to my family's memory, but we'll make an exception.'

Harry laughs, summoning a couple of glasses upstairs with a quick _accio_. He catches them deftly and holds them out for Sirius to pour a large splash of whiskey into each one.

Putting the bottle down on the floor, Sirius takes his glass and raises it, saying somberly, 'To my drunk aunt Lucretia. Thanks for the booze, Lou.'

'Cheers,' Harry says, and they both drink.

Replastering the room takes a backseat after that. The firewhiskey is the best that Harry has ever tasted, burning down his throat and settling warmly in his stomach. Sirius sighs after his first mouthful, blowing out a plume of steam. He shifts so that he's sitting, back against the wall, with one leg bent and the other stretched out in front of him.

'You said she wasn't a bad sort?' Harry asks, shifting so that he's sitting comfortably cross legged in front of Sirius.

Sirius shrugs. 'Comparatively. The bloke she married was Molly's brother, that's how we're cousins.' He takes another sip of whiskey. 'Ignatius was alright, which kinda made Lou a bit less awful by connection. I think her main ambition in life was just to be a bitter old widow, though. She did it great. Complained about everyone and everything, but did it pretty universally. She had this little snappy dog, and I think that dog and a splash of whiskey were the only things she really liked.' He grins. 'She was _funny_. Tore my dad to shreds at every opportunity. It was great to watch.'

'Tore into him about what?'

Sirius waves a hand. 'Nothing worthwhile,' he clarifies. 'Just what a piece of shit she thought he was. They were very competitive siblings. I could never quite tell if she hated me or loved me.'

'Yeah?'

'Yeah, she didn't spare me a tongue lashing, like anyone else. But I pissed off my parents a bunch, and I think that amused her more than what a traitor to the family name I was.' He laughs, drains his whiskey, and says, 'Mad woman. Here, have a top up.'

With a flick of Sirius' wand, the Firewhiskey jumps into the air and tilts itself to refill both their tumblers.

It is a solid hour before they move from the floor of the crumbling drawing room. Staying put and drinking their way through the bottle of Firewhiskey seems significantly preferable to dragging furniture about and clearing off walls. Harry shifts so that he's leaning on the wall next to Sirius, and by the time they notice that the sun is setting outside and it's probably time to sort something out for dinner, they have finished about half the bottle.

Sirius stands up first with a little, 'Oh, woo.' He holds out his hand. Harry takes it and lets himself be pulled to his feet, feeling the world tilt pleasantly around him. He stumbles slightly, catching himself on his godfather's shoulder and they both laugh.

'That's stronger than I thought,' Sirius chuckles. He slips his arm around Harry's shoulders as they make their way downstairs.

Harry leans into the familiar touch happily. He's not sure if he's imagining it, but he thinks Sirius has been shying away from embracing him like this since…well, since something. Since Harry brought up the fact that they sometimes look like a couple? Maybe? He drops his arm around Sirius' waist and rests his head on his godfather's shoulder. The steps are bumpy and uncomfortable, but they don't fall. They also don't drop the rest of the bottle, which Sirius is carrying in his free hand.

Down in the kitchen, Sirius takes his arm from around Harry to walk over to the old record player he has set up in the corner of the room and put on some music. Harry grins as the record makes an odd staticy noise for a moment before playing smoothly and clearly, magically augmented.

Wandering over to the fridge, Harry bops along to the Clash as he pulls out ingredients for dinner. 'I need something spicy,' he says over his shoulder.

Sirius wanders over, peeking into the fridge. 'It's up to you,' he says. 'You're cooking. Right?'

'Trying to, anyway.'

'Knock yourself out.' Sirius takes Harry's empty glass from him and fills it up again with another large dram of whiskey. 'Curry?'

Harry has never cooked butter chicken when quite this drunk before, but he'll give it a solid effort. He chops and prepares the meal at the end of the table instead of the bench so that he doesn't have to turn away from Sirius, who has thrown himself into a chair and propped his bare feet up on the table and is loudly singing along to _I fought the law._ '

Not trusting himself to do any cooking magic right now, Harry carefully slices onions once he's got chicken strips marinating in yogurt and spices. He's not going to have the patience to let anything marinate for as long as it's meant to, but he takes his time preparing everything and takes a break from cooking to dance along with the stereo while he waits for the chicken to absorb some flavour.

Sirius takes a long drink of whiskey, hiding his grin in the glass. His eyes linger on Harry in a way Harry catches for only a moment, but finds encouraging.

He keeps swaying his hips along with the beat. Harry has never really learned to dance properly, but he has picked up over time that as long as he stays relaxed and just bounces along to the music, he won't look as stupid as Ron.

Trainee aurors really like to party.

'Dinner and a show,' Sirius teases. 'We should break into hidden booze stashes more often if this is what I get.'

'Shut up,' Harry laughs. He turns on the spot once, still bopping his shoulders along to the music. He does, however, grab a pan off the shelf and pours some oil into it. He turns the flame on the stove onto a medium setting, and lets the oil heat up. 'We still have to see about dinner. Can you get off your arse and put some rice on?'

Sirius rolls his eyes a bit like a put upon teenager, but he picks up his drink and comes over to help Harry cook.

By the time dinner is almost ready, they have both finished another glass of Firewhiskey and Sirius is dancing along to _Rock the Casbah_ with Harry as the curry simmers on the stove. Harry is very, very tipsy. He isn't at all sure that the curry is going to taste any good, but he has just poured in a tonne of chilli so even if it tastes bad, the burn should override it. And beside, they're both too drunk to really care.

As he serves out rice and butter chicken, he sings along with Sirius. He has enough presence of mind to know that his dancing is probably edging into a zone that's a bit too close to _flirty_ than it should be. Sirius… hasn't noticed? Hopefully.

They eat at the table and finish the Firewhiskey. Sirius doesn't have quite the same spice tolerance as Harry anymore—not since Azkaban—and ends up mixing the rest of his whiskey with a glass of milk to cancel out some of the heat. He insists repeatedly that it is 'basically a White Russian' when Harry mocks him. 

'It's really not,' Harry laughs, clearing away their empty plates and stacking them in the sink. He cannot be bothered dealing with the mess beyond that. He yawns and stretches, feeling his shirt riding up over his stomach. 'One more?' he suggests.

Sirius pushes his chair back. ‘Go on, why not?'

Since they're out of open Firewhiskey, Harry just pulls a couple of beers out of the fridge and throws one to Sirius, who, impressively, catches it. Now that he's eaten, Harry is starting to feel a bit more full and dozy rather than dancey. 'C'mon,' he says, and grabs Sirius by the sleeve to nudge him up to the living room. They drop down onto the couch and Sirius does something with his wand to make the music downstairs play clearly up here as well. He closes his eyes, leaning back on the sofa and lifting his beer bottle to his lips.

Harry curls up, tucking his feet under his legs, and nestles himself against Sirius' side. He hears a sharp intake of breath from beside him and feels Sirius freeze, but just nuzzles closer. _This is stupid_ , a relatively clear part of his brain tells him. He ignores it.

'Are we actually going to replaster that room tomorrow?' Harry asks dozily.

'Maybe...' Sirius yawns. Seemingly cautiously, he slides his arm around the back of the couch so that his thumb brushes Harry's shoulder. 'Or we could start on another room. I want to turn that extra bedroom into a library.'

Harry snickers. 'Do we have enough books for a library?'

'Maybe we should go book shopping tomorrow, then,' Sirius suggests.

'Where would we keep them, if we don't fix up the library first?'

'Touche.'

Harry takes a sip of his beer. His head is spinning—enough that he is starting to regret opening another drink. He tries to fix his gaze on the window outside, but everything is shifting and lurching enough that just looking straight ahead is making him dizzy.

'Ugh,' he says, turning his face to bury it in Sirius' shirt.

'You okay?'

'Drank too much.'

He hears Sirius huff out a laugh. 'No shit,' he says. He leans forward, puts the mostly full beer bottle on the coffee table. 'Come on, bedtime.'

'It's still early...'

'Nah, not really. It took you ages to make dinner.' Sirius stands up, dragging Harry up with him. The movement is a little bit sickly: sitting down for even a few minutes was apparently enough for all the booze to settle unpleasantly in Harry's stomach. 'Let's get you upstairs.'

Harry takes the stairs to his room mostly on his own, tripping only once and scrambling for Sirius' hand.

'I can't count the number of times I put your dad to bed like this,' Sirius tells him as they reach the landing. 'Or he did for me, in fairness. Once I had to help him take a piss.'

'How did that work?'

'You really don't want to know,' Sirius says. 'My shoes were never the same.'

They are at the door to Harry's room. He takes a stumbling step inside. Sirius stays by the door, watching carefully as Harry makes his way over to the bed. Before he sits down, Harry reaches back over his head to pull his shirt off, and throws it toward his window.

'Do you want a sobering potion?' Sirius asks. His voice sounds slightly strangled.

Harry glances up at him, dropping his hands to the front of his jeans to undo his belt and zipper. 'Hm?' he asks, as he shuffles his trousers off over his hips. He gets them down to his knees and bends over to tug them off completely. 

'I'll—' Odd spots of colour have risen in Sirius' cheeks and he turns away quickly. 'I'll go get you one,' he says.

Harry drops his jeans to the ground and flops back onto his bed in his pants, closing his eyes. He can hear Sirius climbing the steps upstairs. The bed sways beneath him like a boat on turbulent water. Harry tries to stay awake long enough to drink down the potion that Sirius is bringing back to him—but his godfather is gone longer than Harry anticipates, and...

Harry rolls over, burying his face in his soft pillow. He just has to stay awake a few...

He wakes up in the morning with a dry mouth and a pounding headache. At some point in the night someone has pulled his blankets over him and left a hangover potion on his side table.


	5. Chapter 5

An owl from Hermione arrives mid-morning, telling Harry that Ron is home for the weekend and that he should come over. Although still hungover and sick feeling, Harry apparates across town pretty much immediately. He wants to get out of the house.

Technically, Ron and Hermione share a small studio flat in Croydon. In practice, Hermione lives in a studio flat in Croydon and Ron visits occasionally, when training lets him go for a weekend. Harry apparates directly into the living room, since the rest of the building is muggles. As usual, the flat is clean and organised, but every surface is covered in books and parchments.

Ron looks up from the couch. 'You got here quick,' he says, standing up and pulling Harry into a hug. 'How're you going?' 

Harry groans. He slumps against Ron and pats him twice on the back. It's the best he can do. 'I'm dead,' he mumbles. 'I might be dying. Apparating is awful. Can I be sick?'

'Nah, I'd rather you not.' Ron guides Harry to the bed that sits in the corner of the living area and pushes him onto it. 'Lie down.'

Gingerly, Harry does so. He closes his eyes. 'I'll be good in a second,' he says as his butter chicken threatens to make a resurgence. His head is throbbing painfully. Why did he think apparation was a good idea when _this_ hungover? 'Just a bit...'

'Big night?'

'Mmrmghm,' Harry says.

Hermione's voice carries out from the bathroom over the sound of a tap running. 'Oh, Harry, you here already?' Coming out into the main room, Hermione takes one look at Harry lying on his side on the double bed in the corner of the room and puts her hands on her hips. 'You're not sick, are you?'

'Just hungover,' Harry replies, rubbing his eye with the heel of his hand.

Sighing, Hermione says, 'Do you want a potion for that?'

He shakes his head. 'Sirius left me one, but I couldn't take it. Felt too sick. Maybe after I eat something.'

She _tsks_.

Harry rolls over to look at Ron. 'Are you on a break from training?'

'Only the weekend,' Ron says. 'But in a couple of weeks we have a month off. Thank Merlin. Everything _hurts_ , Harry. How do they make it so it always hurts?'

'I have no idea.' Harry stretches. 'I think I'm out of shape already though. God, it's good to be done with it.'

'It'll be worse once you're in the field,' Hermione points out. She steps over to the kitchen and puts the kettle on. 'Don't get too comfortable.'

'What happened to the three solid years of telling me to take some time off and relax?'

She smirks. 'I'm just saying.'

'Next year it's all thinking, though,' Harry tells Ron omionously.

Ron groans. 'No, don't say that. Bloody hell. If I have to do any more moving _and_ thinking than this I might explode.' He scratches his cheek. 'Anyway, I have a more important question than that, mate.'

Harry furrows his brows. 'Er, yeah?'

'What in Merlin's beard are you wearing?'

Wandering over with three mugs of steaming tea, Hermione puts them down on the small coffee table between the couch and the bed and sits down next to Ron. 'He looks cool, Ron,' she tells him, as though explaining something confusing to a child.

Harry is wearing a blue turtleneck with a white stripe across the chest, and matching denim jacket and jeans. And shining white vans. 'Yeah,' he says. 'Right. I look cool.'

Hermione lowers her voice. 'Sirius dresses him,' she explains, who snorts loudly.

'Sirius doesn't _dress_ me,' Harry objects. 'I dress myself.'

'Like a big boy,' Ron says, biting his tongue in amusement. 'Is this that thing I heard about you whinging about getting presents?'

'I wasn't—' Harry pouts. 'I'm being misrepresented.' He sits up, reaching for his cup of tea. He blows on it before taking a sip.

Ron slings his arm around the back of the sofa, over Hermione's shoulders, and cocks an eyebrow. 'You're free to give any cool shit Sirius buys you to me, if you hate it so much.'

'I don't hate it! I… I like it,' Harry says.

'Including that jumper?'

'It's a cool jumper!'

'He really does look very cool,' Hermione says fairly. 'Like he should be on the cover of Witch Weekly. Well, again.'

Harry groans. 'Don't mention that.' The tea is helping settle his hangover. Gratefully, he gulps down another long sip. 'My head can't take that this morning.'

'What did you get up to last night anyway?' Hermione asks. 'You look terrible.'

'Nothing, really. Me and Sirius found an old bottle of Firewhiskey and drank it.'

'Is Sirius as bad off as you?'

Harry frowns. Now, that's the question, isn't it? And the whole reason he was so keen to get out of the house this morning. 'I dunno,' he says hesitantly. 'Er, he was still a dog when I left the house.'

'Sorry?'

'Yeah, when I got up this morning I went to see him and he was just curled up on his bed as a dog. Not like, I mean he does that sometimes, you know?'

Ron pulls a face. 'Does he? Is that a bit weird?'

Harry shrugs. 'I don't think so? But I went and lay on the bed with him—'

'As you do,' Hermione interjects, looking slightly skeptical.

'And he got off the bed and lay on the floor,' Harry continues, as though she hadn't said anything. 'Then went under the bed when I reached out to him. He only go back on his bed when I left the room.'

'And that… _is_ weird, I take it?' Ron asks.

'Yeah, for him. He's usually really, I dunno, cuddly as a dog.'

'Right.'

'What did you do, Harry?' Hermione asks.

'I went back to bed, and then came here.'

'Must just have been hungover too,' Ron says reasonably. 'Being a sulk about it, but...'

'Yeah, maybe.' Harry runs a hand through his messy hair. 'I'm pretty sure he took a sobering potion before he went to bed. He was going to bring me one last night, and I saw an empty bottle on his bedside table.'

'Hm.' Hermione chews at her nail, looking curious. 'Did anything happen last night that might have upset him?'

Harry's stomach churns guiltily. Slightly foggy memories of swaying his hips in front of Sirius, of cuddling up next to him on the sofa, of blatantly stripping down for bed drift before his mind's eye. 'Yeah, nah, nothing. We just chatted, made dinner, listened to some music and then he put me to bed when I got a bit sick.' 

'Odd,' Ron says, and then kicks his feet up onto the coffee table, pushing one of Hermione's books aside, grinning. 'Man, Harry, you're so lucky. Sirius is just like your dad, and-'

Harry looks up from his tea. 'He's not my dad,' he says quickly.

'Well no, but he's your godfather, I mean,' Ron clarifies. 'So, kinda the same thing...'

Harry shakes his head. 'Not really. He never even formally adopted me. We're not actually—'

Rolling his eyes, Ron interrupts him. 'But what I mean is, he's _like_ your dad, except you can still just hang out and have fun with him. Get drunk. That's pretty cool. Last time my dad got drunk with me was Christmas, and he spent two hours talking about how much he wants a model train set.'

Stomach swirling uncomfortably, Harry licks his lips and says, 'Sirius is fun, yeah. But, just to be clear, he's really nothing like my dad.'

'But he's basically family, is my poi—'

'Not really.'

'Harry, you've said it yourself,' Ron says, a bit frustrated, even as Hermione puts two fingers on her lips and squeezes her eyes shut. 'You've said that he is the only family you have left. You said that years ago, but I remember you saying it!'

'Well, I've changed my mind.'

'You said he's like your cool uncle.'

'Not an uncle either,' Harry says quickly.

'Just, an uncle you can go out and have fun with.'

Harry puts his tea down a bit too forcefully. 'No,' he says. 'Sirius is more just like… a friend. Who I live with.'

Ron shoots him a confused look. 'Alright,' he says. 'Whatever you say, mate.' He glances at Hermione, raising an eyebrow. Harry sees her shake her head back at him subtly.

'Let's have lunch,' Hermione announces, clearly angling to change the subject.

*

The rest of the afternoon passes pleasantly. Harry stays for lunch and manages to gulp down a hangover potion once he has a base of food in his stomach. After that he feels much better and they end up going for a walk together, stopping for a coffee, and strolling back to the train station where Harry gets on a Southern Line train back home.

As Harry walks from the Underground station back to Grimmauld Place, he frowns to himself, hoping Sirius will be in a better mood when he gets home. Did he mess something up by being so… whatever he was doing last night. _God you're an idiot_ , he tells himself. Of course Sirius doesn't want him flirting or dancing or snuggling with him. Or stripping in front of him for bed. He has just gone and fucked with the perfectly comfortable, perfectly healthy relationship he has with his only godfather.

Pretty much the only person, Harry reminds himself, who has always unconditionally loved and supported him. Nice one, Harry.

He sighs, feeling around for his front door keys in his pocket as he climbs the steps. At least he was drunk. He can blame it on that and just, um. Never get drunk with Sirius again. That works.

He turns the key and pushes the door open. The inside of the hall is quiet, but as Harry steps inside he hears a soft fluttering sound - like the pages of a book turning. He looks up where the sound seems to be coming from. A scrap of paper, folded into a plane, flaps its way down the stairwell and drops itself into Harry's hand. He unfolds it.

Sirius' writing: _Won't be home tonight probably. Left something on your bed._

An unhappy jealousy twists in Harry's stomach. Does that mean what he thinks it means? He crumples up the note and drops it to the floor. Screw it. Sirius is at perfect liberty to shag whoever he wants.

Harry wanders up to his bedroom, the happy relaxed feeling of the day fading slightly in favour of a vague sulky irritation. He pulls off his jacket, chucking it onto his pillow, and climbs onto his bed. Sirius has left a box in the centre of the messy pile of blankets. An expensive box of fancy chocolates. Harry narrows his eyes at them. Is this a condolence prize?

Sighing, he opens the lid and eats a chocolate. It's delicious. Flopping onto his back, he lets the flavour linger on his tongue and glares up at the ceiling unhappily.

Harry tries to have a normal night. He makes himself a quick dinner, eats it while watching some telly, and cleans up after himself. After that, he hits a stumbling block. No matter what he does, he's thinking about what Sirius is doing. Did he have a date organised? Is he having dinner with someone right now? Drinking with them and enjoying their company? Or maybe he's just off on the pull, at a bar, flirting with strangers and—

He tries to read a book. His concentration lasts all of twenty minutes before the words glaze over and he's back to obsessing and sulking. He eats another chocolate. He tries to do some potions work. He tries to clean upstairs. He tries to take a bath, but that's even worse for mulling things over.

Finally, Harry just ends up playing with his Snitch while lying on his back on his bed and eating his way through the whole box of chocolates. It has been late for a while, and he should really get to sleep, but he knows that if he tries to shut his eyes before he's absolutely, painfully exhausted, he's just going to have a video reel playing inside his head of whatever he imagines Sirius is off doing.

He releases the Snitch, lets it fly almost out of arm's reach, and catches it again.

Bites into a caramel cream chocolate.

Downstairs, the door opens.

Harry sits bolt upright in bed, letting the Snitch go. It flutters well out of reach, but he isn't paying attention to it. He can hear movement and voices in the hallway downstairs.

'Wow, what a cool place,' an unfamiliar male voice says. 'I never noticed it on this street before.'

The door shuts again. Sirius' voice: 'Ha, yeah. It blends in.' A pause, the sound of something scuffling on the floor. 'Come here.'

Harry's breath catches in his throat. Sirius brought someone _home_ with him? An icy feeling drops in his stomach and he is torn between wanting to slam his hands over his ears and listening intently to every movement, every word. Most of it is muffled—he can't make out anything beyond murmurs once Sirius and the man lower their voices. But after a moment, footsteps begin to move downstairs, and then they are on the stairwell. Moving upward.

'No, not that way,' Sirius says quickly. 'Up here. Oh, don't look at those, they're only old family photos—'

'It looked like it mov—'

'Nope!' Sirius cuts him off quickly, and then Harry is pretty sure he hears, oh god, kissing. And a little bit of moaning, coming from the man—who Harry is pretty sure is a muggle.

Harry covers his mouth with one hand, as though to block out any sound of his breathing as Sirius and the muggle approach his room. With a quick flick of his wand he turns off his bedroom light so that Sirius won't see it shining under the door and know he is still awake.

'Quiet on this floor,' he hears Sirius murmur, right outside his door as he passes. 'We shouldn't wake my housemate.'

_Housemate_ , Harry thinks indignantly.

'Of course,' the muggle murmurs back, and then Harry hears them kissing again and another moan. He is pretty sure that Sirius is deliberately snogging the guy all the way upstairs to distract from the moving paintings and photos on the walls, or other signs of anything magical. 

‘Let's get that off,’ Sirius says. 

‘Yeah, I - oh, it's stuck.’

‘Just bend your arms… Come on, this way upstairs.’

‘Hold on, I just want to get my shirt—’

Their voices are moving up the stairs to the third floor. 

‘If we just…’

‘It's caught over my ears, I can't see.’

Laughing together. ‘Oh dear, sorry. Here—’

The sound of Sirius' door closing, with a click. 

Harry turns his light back on. He can still hear the murmur of voices. The squeak of a bed. Harry scrabbles for his wand again and casts a hasty silencing charm. Immediately, his room is blessedly silent—but it is almost even worse, not hearing what is happening upstairs but knowing it is going on. Sighing, Harry looks down at his chocolates. The box is empty. He picks it up and moves it off his bed, standing up. The Snitch is still flitting around his room with a noise a bit like a mosquito, so he chases it down and catches it, strapping it back into its box.

He lies down on his bed again. Rolls onto his side, pulling his pillow down at an angle under his head. He tries to remind himself one more time that it is _none_ of his business who Sirius chooses to shag. But it doesn't make him feel better.

He punches the pillow, once, ostensibly to make it more comfortable. Lies down, closes his eyes and charms his light off again.

It takes a long time to get to sleep in the unnatural silence of his bedroom.


	6. Chapter 6

Harry gets another owl first thing the following day. It is, again, from Hermione. The note says: _Are you free for lunch tomorrow? Meet me at the office at midday. I want to have a chat._

The owl that brought the letter is a tawny, proud Ministry bird which she must have borrowed. It hoots respectably while Harry scribbles back a short reply, saying he'll be there. As Harry attaches the note to its leg it fluffs up its feathers, before leaving by the window again very efficiently.

Harry sits back down on his bed. At some point he needs to leave his room and go downstairs for breakfast, but he's been putting it off. He has no idea if the muggle Sirius brought over last night is still here or not. He never heard him leaving - but then the silencing charm was up around his room until he woke up at about ten in the morning, so who knows.

He also doesn't particularly want to see Sirius right now. Harry doesn't like feeling jealous. It sits on his shoulders, an uncomfortable, ugly feeling which has never felt anything other than foreign and invasive inside him. He remembers being jealous of Dean when he was dating Ginny, back in school. He had kinda wanted to hit him. Harry doesn't want to hit the muggle who may or may not be in the house. He maybe wants to hit Sirius a little bit.

But not really. Mostly he just wants to hide up here. Harry wishes he still had chocolate.

Eventually, he cannot justify it anymore. He's hungry. It's the afternoon. He has finished his book _and_ cleaned up everything off the floor in his room.

He goes downstairs.

Sirius is in the drawing room, alone. He has the stereo on, and he's humming along and doing the crossword at the back of the paper. Glancing up as Harry pauses in the doorway, he grins.

'Afternoon, sleepyhead,' he says.

Harry frowns. 'Yeah...' He shuffles on the spot. 'Did you—Uh.' He trails off.

'You alright, Harry?'

'Fine, thanks.' He bites his lip. 'And, er, thanks for the chocolates.'

Sirius' lips curl up in a small half-smile. 'Go have some tea,' he says. 'Wake up a bit.'

Harry scowls and goes down to the kitchen. He is perfectly awake. But he makes himself a pot of black tea and some cheese on toast anyway. At least the guy Sirius brought home isn't around. He must have headed off before Harry woke up, or some time during the night. Which is good—t's harder to hide the magical elements of the building during the daytime, when they're all on full display.

'How were Ron and Hermione yesterday?' Sirius asks, startling Harry as he wanders into the kitchen, unseen.

'They're fine,' Harry replies shortly.

'Is Ron on a break?'

'Not yet, but soon.'

'And Hermione's got her house-elf policy through, then? Bless her.'

Harry takes a bite of toast. 'Soon. If she can get it through this committee thing.'

'Of house elves?' Sirius laughs. 'She knows they'll all be parroting whatever their masters want, right? Which isn't going to be what she wants to hear is best for them.'

'Yep.'

Coming around the table, Sirius sits down opposite Harry, his eyebrows furrowing. 'What's wrong?'

'Nothing,' Harry says, glaring into his tea.

'Are you sure?' Sirius props his chin on his hand, raising an eyebrow. 'You're acting pretty grouchy.'

'No, I'm not,' Harry replies, grouchily. Sirius' eyebrow rises up even higher. 'Fine, whatever.'

'Is it because I went out last night? Because I did leave a note.'

'It's not that,' Harry lies.

Sirius stares at him for a long moment, before eventually shrugging and leaning back in his chair to stretch. 'Okay then,' he says dismissively.

'I mean, you brought a muggle home,' Harry blurts out, before he can stop himself.

Sirius freezes. 'I thought you slept through that,' he says cautiously.

Standing up, Harry sends his crumb-covered plate to wash itself in the sink. 'I mean, I don't care,' he says. 'Just kinda dumb, Sirius. Statute of Secrecy and all that.'

'Oh yeah, I'm sorry, I forgot you're such a stickler for that,' Sirius replies dryly. 'Shall I just go turn myself in?'

'I don't care what you do,' Harry snaps, and leaves the room.

*

Harry arrives at the Ministry the next day to find it all but empty. He crosses the sparsely populated forum to enter a deserted lift and zooms down to Hermione's floor with only one softly flapping memo accompanying him.

Stepping out of the lift he wanders down the quiet corridor to Hermione's small office, and sees only two people along the way—the witch who had offered to help him with _anything_ the last time he was here, and an old warlock snoring at his desk.

'Where is everyone?' he asks as he wanders into Hermione's office. She is, reliably, at her desk hidden behind a stack of books and parchment.

'On leave,' she replies. 'It's summer. They all want a couple of weeks off.' She puts down her quill. 'And I wanted a private chat with you, so it works out.'

Harry goes still as he closes the door behind him. 'Uh, this sounds serious? I thought we were just having lunch.'

'Lunch can wait,' Hermione says briskly. 'Sit down, Harry.'

Hesitantly, Harry takes his spot in the seat on the opposite side of Hermione's desk, feeling a bit like he's back in school in McGonagall's office. 'Am I in trouble?' he asks, aiming to sound teasing. He sounds nervous instead. 

She smiles, but it's a bit sad looking. Her eyes are soft. 'Of course not, Harry. I'm worried about you.'

'Er, what?' Harry blinks. 'I'm fine. I'm great. I mean, I ate a whole box of chocolates in one sitting the other night, but aside from that...' 

'I noticed on Saturday that you seemed, ah.' Hermione pauses, considering her words. ' _Different_ , when you were talking about Sirius. Ron was right, you've always considered him your family, and you just seemed, well, very insistent that he's _not_.'

Harry swallows. 'Um. Well. I mean, technically - he isn't.'

'Yes, exactly this.' Hermione reaches out and takes his hand, across the table. 'Harry, I want you to be honest with me, okay?'

A cold feeling slips down Harry's spine. Has Hermione caught him out in his—what—crush on Sirius? Already?

He clears his throat. 'Er, sure.'

'Has he done something to make you uncomfortable?' she asks. 'You were upset about these presents, and you were worried there was a, a sexual element to it. Has Sirius…' She takes a deep breath. 'Harry, he hasn't done anything beyond these presents, has he? Said anything inappropriate? Been more tactile than you're comfortable with?'

Her voice is filled with genuine worry and concern. Harry's first reaction is to laugh. Loudly.

'No, Hermione,' he says, finally. 'God, I _wish_.'

The second part of that is out of his mouth before he can think about what he's saying. He sees Hermione's eyes go wide just as his words catch up with him.

Shit.

'I mean,' he says quickly. 'Just that, er.' Oh well. The cat is probably out of the bag. He buries his face in his hands and groans. 'I'm a fucking idiot,' he moans.

'Harry?'

'I like the presents,' Harry explains. 'I like the shopping, and the touching, and getting drunk together, and motorbike rides, and - and I'm an idiot, Hermione. I like _Sirius_.'

She doesn't say anything. Harry keeps his face buried in his hands for a long minute, before eventually giving up and peeking at her. She looks shocked, and she is frowning.

'Oh, Harry, you can't...'

'I know, okay? I know he's my godfather.'

'He's twice your age.'

'Yeah, and he sees me as his son.'

'He has been responsible for you since you were thirteen. He can't—you can't.'

'Yeah, Hermione, _I know_.' He slumps back in his chair, fiddling with the zip of his hoodie (nice, soft, new hoodie—cost seventy quid) and staring at the ceiling. 'I have it under control, okay? I was an idiot the other night when we drank a bit too much, but I'm just… not going to do that again, and other than that, it's fine. I just have to deal with it.'

'What did you do?' Hermione asks pointedly.

'Don't worry, nothing too bad. I didn't… say anything, or really even do anything.'

' _Harry_.'

'Fine, I stripped off when he was putting me to bed and did some stupid sexy dancing when we were making dinner. And tried to cuddle him on the couch. He didn't respond to any of it.'

'Did he stop you?'

'Well, no, but I wasn't really...'

Hermione rubs her eyes with her thumb and forefinger. Finally she breathes out of her nose and looks up. 'Can I see the sexy dancing?' she asks, but with a slight smirk dancing around the corner of her lips. 'To see what we're working with?'

Harry throws a quill at her. 'Are you going to help, or not?'

'I don't know if there is much I can do, Harry,' she says kindly. 'You can't help the way you feel. And you're not doing anything… wrong. But you know it would be wrong for Sirius to, well, reciprocate in any way. He needs to back off a little bit, honestly. He is older than you. It's his job to establish proper boundaries.'

'I am an adult, you know,' Harry says, sounding slightly petulant.

'Yes, I know.' Hermione stands up, comes around the desk and pulls Harry up into a hug. He wraps his arms around her in return and sighs. 'I'm here whenever you want to talk,' she says. 'You'll be alright. You just have to...'

'Tamp this down?'

She smiles at him sadly. 'Oh, Harry,' she says again. 'Let's go get some lunch.'

*

Harry goes home after lunch with Hermione feeling lighter. He isn't sure if he feels better, exactly, but just getting it all off his chest has helped. They had bought sandwiches and eaten them outdoors in the warm summer sun, and hardly talked more about it.

Sirius is upstairs somewhere, when Harry gets in. He can hear him moving around. Harry feels a twist of guilt, he supposes, for being so testy at Sirius yesterday and not really talking to him since. He really ought to go up and try to make it normal with him. Help with fixing up the third floor for a while.

But first, he goes to his bedroom to get changed. He frowns when he steps inside. There is yet another box sitting on his bed, wrapped in gift paper, from Sirius.

What had Hermione said over lunch? _'And these presents… Harry, don't read too much into them. If there was anything untoward about them, well. I mean, that would have started with the Firebolt, when you were just a kid, and that's— Well, obviously, Sirius would never..._

Harry peels the paper off the box. Inside is a muggle camera. A polaroid camera. A sleek, silver one with a small display screen on top. Smiling, Harry fiddles around with it, loading in film, before dropping onto his back and holding it over himself to snap a quick photo. He sticks out his tongue, pulls a face, and the camera makes a loud noise as it rolls out the film.

Cameras still always remind him of Colin, back in school. But Harry blows on the film as it develops, and sees himself in the image. He is kind of unused to looking at pictures of himself where he isn't moving - mostly he's used to seeing pictures of himself looking reluctant to be in frame and trying to pull away. It's almost uncanny to just see the frozen image of his face, tongue out, winking at the camera. Harry smiles.

Then sighs.

Standing up, he pulls off his jacket and changes into a comfortable t-shirt he doesn't mind getting messed up. Carrying the camera, he heads upstairs.

Sirius is in the drawing room with a trowel in hand, spreading plaster evenly across a damaged section of the wall. He is on his knees, black jeans and t-shirt flecked with white smears from the work.

Harry lifts up the camera and aims it at him, snapping a photo. Sirius looks up in surprise.

'Hey,' he says, as the photo prints out and Harry takes it from the camera. 'Didn't hear you get in. Do you like it?'

Harry throws the stupid photo he took of himself at Sirius while the other one is printing. 'Yeah,' he replies. 'That one is for you.'

Sirius grins and looks at it for a few moments before folding and pocketing it. 'I'll treasure it always.'

'Can I help?' Harry asks, stepping inside and crouching down next to the bucket of plaster mixture.

Sirius summons a spare trowel. 'Of course. I think I got the mixture a bit thin, but we'll work it out.' He looks at Harry curiously. 'All good?' he asks, and Harry knows he isn't asking about the plastering—he's asking about the fact that Harry has been irritable and avoidant since yesterday.

Harry smiles tightly at him. 'I'm all good,' he promises.


	7. Chapter 7

The doorbell rings late afternoon and, surprised, Sirius goes downstairs to open the door. No one ever really visits unexpectedly.

Hermione is standing on the front step, a stern look on her face. Her arms are folded and her thick, curly hair tied up in a loose, high ponytail.

'Hi,' Sirius says, surprised. He steps aside to let her inside. 'Harry isn't home, but he should be back in a bit. He's gone out to a movie with—'

'Luna, yes, I know,' Hermione says briskly, walking inside. 'That's why I'm here. I wanted to speak to you.'

'Uhhhh.' Sirius closes the door and scratches the stubble on his chin. 'Did you now?'

Sirius likes Hermione—always has. Still, she is Harry's friend, not his. The only times she has ever really spent time alone with him have either been only by circumstance (and rather awkward, mostly quiet evenings here during the war), or she has been coming to tell him off for something.

He knows, instinctively, that this is the latter sort of visit. Without begrudging Hermione being protective of her friends, he can't help but feel a little amused as he follows her into his own dining room wondering what on earth he is meant to have done now.

Hermione points at a chair and says, 'Sit down.'

Sirius pulls out the chair and does as instructed, trying to hide his smile as he looks at her curiously. 'No _"How are you, Sirius?"_ ' he asks. 'Nothing about the lovely weather?'

'I want to talk about Harry.'

Sirius frowns. 'Right. What about him?'

'You need to back off him a bit,' Hermione says pointedly.

'What does that mean?' Sirius asks, blinking at her.

'I mean the presents you're buying him, all the clothes, chocolates, all of it.' She isn't sitting down at the table; she is standing opposite him, arms still crossed and a dark look on her face which Sirius knows to be wary of. 'He doesn't know what to make of it.'

'Hermione, I don't know what you are implying, but there _isn't_ anything to make of it. I'm just getting my godson a few presents. Like I always have.'

'It's different now,' she says sharply. 'A couple of gifts at Christmas and birthdays is one thing, as is spoiling him for a few weeks while he is on holidays. I know what was your _thing_ for a while, the two of you. He would come home for a break and you would spend a couple of weeks just riding around on that bike and eating everywhere and buying things—but Sirius, he is home for _good_ now, and it's different.'

Sirius eyes her. 'Has he said any of this to you? I don't see how you—'

'Yes, he has,' she interrupts him.

Sirius goes quiet, a heavy feeling dropping in his stomach. 'What did he say?'

'He asked if it was normal,' she tells him. 'How much you spoil him. And he was… confused, by it. He isn't sure what it means from you.'

Knowing his voice sounds sharper than he means it to be, Sirius says, 'And what did you say to him?'

'I told him that you're just trying to be a good godfather,' Hermione says plainly. 'And you only want to show him that you care about him.'

'Exactly!'

' _But_ , that's not the point. Harry is an adult. You can't just treat him like some kind of, of—sugar baby.'

Sirius groans and buries his face in his hands. 'Shit, Hermione, that was ages ago.'

'What was ages ago?'

'He didn't tell you?' Sirius pushes his hair out of his face. 'We were shopping and some muggles thought we were—' He frowns. 'We sorted it out. It was fine.'

'Well, clearly it _wasn't_ ,' Hermione snaps. 'Or Harry wouldn't have come to me asking if you _are_ his sugar daddy.'

'Can we stop—I'm not Harry's sugar daddy! Can we please stop saying sugar _anything_.' Sirius laughs, a touch hysterically. 'This is stupid.'

'It's not stupid if it means Harry thinks he can't trust you to be his guardian properly.'

'Technically, I'm not his guardian anymore,' Sirius points out. 'As you say, he's an adult.'

'Oh, not you too. Look, it doesn't matter what he is _technically_ , or what you are _technically_. Sirius, you need to be the parental figure in his life. You need to be a good parent, and that means you can't have Harry getting _confused_ about what _you_ want, like this.'

'What are you suggesting _I_ want?'

'Nothing, unless you—you would never… Heavens, I can't believe I'm asking this, but you have never had _feelings_ for Harry, have you?'

Sirius splutters, feeling his cheeks go hot. 'Hermione!'

'I know, it's ridiculous.'

'Yeah, ridiculous,' Sirius agrees, that heavy, squirming feeling sinking deeper inside him. 'I just want whatever is best for him.'

'Which means being a normal, healthy father figure.'

'The thing is, neither of us knows what that looks like.' He sees Hermione open her mouth, and holds up a hand, cutting her off. 'No, Hermione, listen. I'm doing my best, okay? I'm trying to give Harry whatever I can that he missed growing up. I'm trying to be there for him. I'm trying to house and look after him and anything, anything else I need to do as a godfather. But you have to understand, I don't have a fucking clue what I'm doing! Particularly not now, when I have no idea what a normal family relationship would look like for us.'

Hermione finally sits down, slowly, sympathy climbing into her eyes. 'Of course,' she says softly. 'Of course, I understand.'

'My parents were terrible, Harry's aunt and uncle were terrible. We're just… making this up as we go.' He runs a hand through his hair and laughs. 'I never even saw myself having kids. And then, I mean—after James and Lily…' He sighs. 'I love Harry. He's the most important thing to me, and I want him to be happy.'

'He is happy,' Hermione says quietly, reaching out to pat Sirius' hand that is sitting on the table. 'Thank you. I know you mean your best. I just… wanted to make sure you would be careful. Okay? Be careful.'

He waves off her words. 'When have I ever been anything other than careful?' he asks, and grins when Hermione purses her lips sceptically. 'I will,' he says placatingly. 'Harry has great friends looking out for him too.'

*

When Hermione has left, Sirius only has a few minutes to slump down in his chair and bury his head in his hands before he hears the door unlocking. He looks up and turns in his chair, looking over his shoulder. Harry wanders past and pauses to look at him.

'What are you doing in the dining room?' Harry asks in confusion.

It's a fair question—most of the time the room sits idle and empty, given the huge table down in the kitchen and the fact it is only the two of them. 'Sitting,' Sirius says. He doesn't think he should tell Harry about Hermione's visit, somehow. 'How was the movie?'

Grinning, Harry comes into the room and toes out of his trainers, kicking them off into the corner. He drops down into a chair. 'Great. Honestly, take Luna to a movie if you ever get a chance. It is _wonderful_.' He cards his hand through his hair, leaving it wild. 'I had to cast a _muffliato_ around us, because she kept forgetting to lower her voice, but the commentary was better than the movie.'

He thinks about Hermione saying that Harry was confused—uncomfortable?—with Sirius buying things for him. But he looks relaxed and happy right now, dressed head to toe in nice muggle clothes. He's wearing a soft, deep red cashmere sweater with a deliberately rumpled collar poking out underneath, fawn coloured trousers which hit just above his ankles and clean white socks pulled up beneath them.

He doesn't have to feel bad about this, does he? About letting his godson dress how he likes instead of in tattered hand-me-downs all the time?

Sirius remembers when he first saw Harry out of his Hogwarts uniform, wearing a sweater which went almost to his knees and jeans tugged in with a belt so that it bunched awkwardly around his waist. Trainers where the soles were separating from the shoes so that old socks tattered with holes poked through.

He just wants what is best for him. Is that so wrong?

Harry starts to talk about his day, but Sirius only half-listens, his eyes drawn to the relaxed posture of his body, the way his mouth shapes his words as he speaks. 

His tongue feels heavy in his mouth, throat scratching with the feeling that he lied to Hermione earlier. _Ridiculous_. 

*

Several weeks pass calmly. Sirius takes Hermione's advice and cools it with the gifts and Harry, well. The strange fissure of tension which has been cutting a line between them recently seems to fade. They finish re-plastering and reflooring the drawing room. They finally manage to get the drape down between the rooms with a tricky bit of magic which involves, at its core, setting fire to it.

Finally they stand in the room with a selection of paint swatches, holding them up to the walls one at a time.

'What the fuck is with the names of these?' Sirius mutters, flicking through the samples. 'What do you think of the…' He holds up a colour to the wall and squints to read the print. 'Nut milk?'

Harry snorts.

'You don't like the nut milk?' Sirius asks, biting the inside of his cheek as Harry cracks up, stifling his laughter behind the back of his hand. 'I quite like the nut milk.'

' _Stop_ ,' Harry gets out, leaning forward and catching himself on his knees. 'Stop saying "nut milk".'

'Well, it's between that and hog bristle.' Sirius picks up another swatch. 'This one is just called "male half".' He elbows Harry. 'Stop laughing. Which one of these do you want to try? Nut milk, hog bristle or male half?'

Harry shakes his head, hair falling in his eyes. He can't seem to manage a reply. He waves his hand at Sirius, who shrugs.

'Alright, nut milk it is.' He flicks his wand, and the walls shimmer for a moment before settling into the colour on the swatch. 'It's a bit bland, isn't it?'

Finally choking down laughter, Harry manages to look up. 'Yeah, no I don't like it. Can you try the windflower?'

'Was that the pink?'

'Sort of brownish pink, yeah.'

The walls transform again, blurring for a moment and taking on the new colour. Sirius pulls a face. 'Oh no,' he says. 'No way. I feel like I should be throwing couch doilies over everything.'

'What about something green?'

They flick through what must be about twenty different colours, and finally Sirius drops down onto the floor as the walls dissolve into a clear blue simply called "prompt" on the swatch. 'That's fine,' he says. 'I can't tell the difference between anything anymore.'

'I like it,' Harry agrees, and follows Sirius onto the panelled floor. He holds his hand up for a high five, which Sirius gives him, feeling slightly exhausted. 'Well, that only took us a month and a half.'

'We still need to fix up the furniture,' Sirius points out, shifting so that he's lying down, propped up on his elbows. 'But not today.'

He glances at Harry, who is looking at him with an odd, thoughtful look on his face. His eyes seem to be lingering on Sirius' bare arms. 'Harry?'

'I like your tattoos,' Harry says quickly.

Sirius quirks an eyebrow, something flipping in his stomach. Harry sounds a little shy and nervous, which is unusual. Wishing desperately he could force down the odd little sensation of _hope_ when Harry compliments him like this, Sirius replies, 'Yeah? They're old as shit.' He looks down at his arm, partially just so that he's not looking at Harry. 'Probably need to get a touch up on some of them, actually.'

'Did you get them done by muggles? I've never noticed, are there wizard tattoo places?'

'Yeah, there are. It's more or less the same, but they can do some fancy stuff. These are muggle though, yep.' He grins. 'Got a few of them when I was still at school. McGonagall was not impressed.'

'Do they hurt?'

Sirius quirks an eyebrow. 'Why? You thinking of getting some?'

A blush crawls up Harry's cheeks, and Sirius feels his mouth go dry. 'Maybe,' Harry says. 'If you… I don't know.'

'You can,' Sirius says quickly. 'Not that, I mean you don't need my permission or anything.' He swallows. 'They don't hurt much, you'd be fine. They're only really bad on the bones.' He can feel his heart, to his surprise, thumping in his chest. Never before has he thought about Harry getting inked or anything—it has never come up. But now that he's suggesting it, the idea has wedged in Sirius' brain and a part of it is just buzzing out, thinking that he would look _beautiful_. 'What do you want?' he asks, voice scratchy.

'Something to remember my mum and dad,' Harry says, quieter. 'Maybe like… Er, I dunno, it's stupid.'

'No,' Sirius says, standing up quickly. 'It's not.' He reaches out a hand to Harry. 'We can go right now, if you want.'

Harry lets himself be pulled to his feet, chuckling. 'No, I don't—I don't know what I want yet.'

'That's why you need to talk to a tattooist,' Sirius points out. 'Come on, let's get on the bike. I think there's a good place over in—'

Sirius feels Harry's hand close on his arm, warm fingers wrapping around his wrist. 'Tomorrow,' he says, smiling. His green eyes are sparkling behind his glasses. 'Thanks though.'

'We are doing this,' Sirius says. He knows he's probably a little too excited at the idea, but the thought of Harry with black ink decorating his dark skin has now wedged itself in his brain and he _likes it_. 'I'll buy it for you.'

'You don't have to—'

'Yes I do,' Sirius says quickly, because in honesty, this is as much a present to himself as Harry. 

And that is how his promise to Hermione to take it down a notch with the gifts peters out and crumbles beneath him. With Harry smiling at him, radiant and grateful.

*

Sirius kicks his bike into gear just as Harry jumps on the back behind him and wraps his arms around his waist. Harry is wearing the leather jacket Sirius bought him a while back. It is open, showing off a plain white vest underneath.

'You ready?' Sirius asks over the loud rumbling of the bike. Harry shifts forward, so that his legs are pressed tight to Sirius' hips.

'Mmhmm,' Harry confirms, shuffling so that he is comfortable. 'Good to go.'

Sirius starts the bike and they turn slowly onto the road. 'Decided what you want?'

'I think, a stag and a doe.' He laughs under his breath. 'It's kinda hokey.'

Sirius' chest aches with a bittersweet warmth. 'Nah,' he says. 'It's good. I don't know if this place does walk-ins, but I know they do good stuff. We might just be making a booking and sorting out a design today.'

'That's fine.’

The roads are busy, and the roar of the traffic and the wind and the rumbling motor of the bike drown out any further conversation. They aren't going too far. Sirius swerves through traffic, trying to ignore the way Harry has his hand pressed to his stomach, on the inside of his open jacket.

*

'I have no idea what I'm looking for,' Harry says, flicking through a tattoo artist's portfolio. He is sitting next to Sirius on a long leather couch at the front of the studio, looking at designs. The work is varied—one artist does crisp, clean colourful pieces, another does highly detailed black and white work, one replicates watercolour painting.

'What do you like?' Sirius asks.

'Er, I mean, I like this.' He points to a photograph of a tattoo of a stylised owl, designed in duplicating patterns. 'No idea why, though.'

Sirius glances up at the front counter. They've been told to wait for a bit while one of their artists finishes with a client, and then they can look at a quick consultation. Sirius has never been particularly picky about his tattoos—as a kid, he just walked into whatever place he liked with a very rough idea of what he wanted and let the artist go to town. He has never been disappointed.

'Or this,' Harry says, pointing to a tattoo of a black-and-white bear which looks like it is sketched in pencil, despite being inked into skin. 'Yeah, I like how this looks.'

Sirius lowers his voice. 'Remember,' he murmurs, 'don't stress too much about it. Whatever you get, it can always be vanished later on.'

Harry laughs. 'Have you ever vanished a tattoo?'

'Yeah. Well...' Sirius shrugs down the shoulder of his leather jacket to point out a blank patch in his sleeve just below the elbow. 'James did it for me, actually. We snuck out of school one weekend in sixth year and I got it done, but it was pretty, uh, lewd. Didn't think that through. It was summer, so I couldn't hide it all the time at school.'

'What was it of?'

'Oh, just something dumb. Like those posters I used to put up in my bedroom.' Sirius smirks. 'Kinda like when I was trying really hard to pretend I was straight, except the cat was kind of out of the bag by that point.'

Harry looks up at him in surprise, blinking. 'Really?'

'And I think I was just trying to piss off mum and dad.' Frowning, Sirius points out another photo in the portfolio Harry is holding. 'What about that?' he asks, mainly to change the direction of conversation.

He doesn't want to talk too much about that with Harry, not least because the truth of it is that most of the reason he ever made such a pronounced effort for his friends to think he was straight—not the tattoos so much, but the posters, definitely—was to distract from the fact that he was hopelessly, completely in love with James. Not that _that_ secret really lasted long, either. 

Harry is turning the page on the portfolio to a different artist. 'I don't like these,' he says. 'Sirius, I know nothing about art. Is this good or bad?'

Shrugging a shoulder, Sirius just says, 'It's whatever you want it to be.'

Eventually, one of the tattoo artists has some time to speak with them and, fortunately, it is the artist who did the bear that Harry liked. Sirius waits on the couch and half-listens as Harry goes up to the counter to speak with him about a design.

He keeps flicking through the photographs idly, watching Harry out of the corner of his eye. He is leaning against the counter as the artist roughly sketches things, trying to explain what he likes and pointing to pictures from the portfolio as he does so. Sirius watches as Harry shrugs off half his jacket and traces out a region on his upper shoulder and neck to the tattooist, who nods.

Sirius has to forcefully drag his eyes back to the photographs in front of him to ignore the spike of desire in his stomach. Followed by a twist of guilt. It feels so achingly familiar to all those years spent pining after James, sometimes—the hopeful, burning pleasure of just _looking_ and _wanting_ —and then later, _having_ , but never really, never enough— paired discomfitingly with the snagging thread of knowing it is a betrayal to even think it. Like waking up from a pleasant dream to thud into the knowledge that it wasn't and can never be real. Even when he _had_ James, and that happy, warming dream was real all the time, knowing that it had to end, that it wouldn’t be forever. 

'Yeah, exactly like that!' he hears Harry say enthusiastically, and glances up again. Harry is leaning over to look at the drawing from a different angle. 'And then if the doe is like, next to it and a bit below?'

Sirius lets out a breath. He wonders how he is going to cope once Harry actually _has_ the tattoo. Why is he torturing himself like this? It should not be as hot as it is. He should not find it as attractive as he does. 

The artist keeps drawing for a while and Harry keeps talking to him. He can hear Harry apologise several times for not really knowing what he likes about different tattoos or being able to explain what he wants. But it seems to work out, because in the end the artist just says, 'So you're happy with that?' and turns the design around so that Harry can inspect it properly.

'Wow,' Harry says, voice soft. 'Yes, absolutely.'

'There some deep meaning behind wanting this?' the tattooist asks.

'Er, well.' Harry clears his throat. 'Yeah, I guess so. My mum and dad died when I was little, and they...' He pauses, looking for words. '...always liked deer?'

'Oh,' the tattooist replies. 'That sucks, sorry.'

'Uh, no pressure, though,' says Harry, messing up his hair and laughing. 'What you've done is amazing.'

With a pang in his chest, Sirius hides a snort of laughter behind a cough into his hand. He supposes there's no real way to say to a muggle that your dad could turn into a stag, although now he's just picturing James and Lily collecting china plates illustrated with deer and decorating their old house with model miniatures.

'So, we can do this in a session if you want,' the tattooist is saying. 'I've got a few slots next week, we can get you into. I'd estimate this will come to about five-hundred pounds. That'll be all good?'

'Er,' Harry says, and turns around to call over to Sirius. 'Five-hundred quid?' he asks. 'That alright, yeah?'

'Of course,' Sirius calls back, shooting him a thumbs up. 'Anything.'

'Yeah, that's good,' Harry says to the tattooist who, Sirius notices in the peripheral of his vision, is trying not to grin.

'Is that your partner?' the tattooist asks.

Sirius hears Harry splutter. He tries not to look up—to make it seem like he hasn't heard—but he can glimpse a flush rising up Harry's cheeks. His own neck feels hot.

'Um,' Harry stammers. 'Er… he's...' He seems to be stumbling over words, and Sirius furrows his brow. This has happened before, and Harry has always gotten out an immediate, _No! He's my godfather!_ within seconds. Finally, after an uncomfortably long pause, in which Sirius very, very studiously pretends not to be listening, Harry manages a short: 'Nah.'

'Right-o,' says the tattooist, and spends the next several minutes booking Harry into a time to get the tattoo done the following Wednesday. 'See you then,' he says finally and, thanking him profusely, Harry takes a little card with a time and date on it. He turns and wanders back to Sirius, a couple of points of high colour still sitting on his cheeks.

'All done?'

'All set,' Harry agrees quickly. 'Let's go.'

*

Later that evening, Sirius is halfway down the stairs to the kitchen when he pauses, hearing voices below.

Harry's voice: '—Hasn't done anything, Hermione. It's just me.'

Slowly, quietly, Sirius creeps down the last few steps and pokes his head into the kitchen. Harry is sitting cross-legged on the floor in front of the fireplace, nursing a cup of tea. Hermione's head is floating in the fireplace, looking sympathetic.

'I know it's hard, but you've got to let it go. You're just going to hurt yourself, otherwise.'

'Yeah...' Harry sighs. 'I am. Letting it go. Kind of. It’s just been harder since training finished.'

' _Harry_.'

'I'm getting there!'

Sirius frowns and backs up the stairs again. He doesn't know who they are talking about, but it isn't something that Harry has brought up with him, which means it isn't his business. He still feels a pang of something. Protectiveness for his godson. Unwanted jealousy. Hurt that Harry hasn't come to him about it.

'You should go out with someone,' he hears Hermione suggest, her voice more distant as he creeps slowly upstairs. 'There's a nice wizard in the Magical Cooperation Office I could set you up with. About our age. Cute, but don't tell Ron I said that.'

'Maybe...' Harry replies, and Sirius doesn't hear any more of their conversation.

This feels, stupidly, like being back in school. James spent so many years pining after Lily, and Sirius, in turn, spent all those years reminding him that she thought he was a conceited prick and he should give up. Maybe not the most mature response, but it always made him feel better in the short term. The more he could convince James he would never get Lily, the more he could foolishly convince _himself_ he might eventually get James for good.

Of course, it never worked. James wasn't the sort to quit. Anything.

Unhappily, he feels the same urge now. Go downstairs and tell Harry not to go on a date with whoever this chap is Hermione wants to set him up with. Tell Harry to get over whoever he's stuck on. Convince him that he'll be happiest here, single, without bothering with any of that crap.

Taking a long breath in and letting a long breath out, Sirius reminds himself to stop being stupid and selfish. After enough time has passed, he goes back downstairs, louder this time, so that Harry will hear him coming.

'Hey,' Harry says, looking up. He isn't on the floor anymore. Hermione is gone. He is sitting at the table, still sipping at his tea. He is frowning.

'What's wrong?'

'Uh, just. Hermione wants me to go on a blind date with some guy from her work.'

Sirius forces his voice to sound normal. 'You should,' he says, a bit too brightly.

'Really?'

Sirius wanders over to the kettle, pouring himself some tea. 'Of course. Live on the edge.' He glances over his shoulder. Harry is screwing up his face. 'Hey, what's the worst that could happen?'

'Given my luck?'

Sirius grins and turns around to lean against the bench. The words to encourage Harry to give up on it are scratching at his tongue, but instead he says, 'I'm gonna go out tonight.'

'Oh. Can I come?'

A long strand of hair falls into Sirius' face and he blows it out of the way, feeling awkward. 'Um. No. Sorry. I'm going to, well...'

'Right. On the pull?' Harry sounds unusually bitter.

'If you want to be crass.'

'Ha. Okay, well, have fun.' Harry empties his mug. 'I might see if Ron is free from training tonight.'

He stands up and leaves the kitchen. Sirius watches him go. He didn't have any plans to go out prior to saying the words, but now he supposes that is what he'll do. A nice hook-up will distract him, anyway. And—like teasing James that Lily hated his guts—will make him feel better, if only temporarily.

Drinking his tea slowly, Sirius stands at the bench for a while and eventually hears footsteps in the hall and the door opening and closing. Harry leaving to spend his evening with his best friend. Sirius sends his mug to the sink and goes upstairs to get dressed.

*

It has never been difficult for Sirius to find casual hookups. He keeps to muggles, because muggles are easier in pretty much every way. If the wizarding community is small and insular, the gay wizarding community is exponentially so. There are countless muggles looking for a quick, easy and mostly anonymous shag—a muggle gay bar is a place of opportunity. A wizard gay bar is just a small town pub with the same three people, all of whom you are distantly related to.

Nevermind the fact that Sirius is still infamous among wizards. Nothing ever quite shakes the stink of being a renowned mass murderer, even not being one.

On this night, Sirius ends up with an attractive boy—younger than he would usually have, probably closer to Harry's age than his own—with fair hair and a bright smile. He doesn't know his name, but he does know that the boy lives in a sharehouse with seven other people on the other side of the city so, despite the fact that he prefers not to, he brings him home to Grimmauld Place.

Hooking up with muggles at home comes with challenges. It is generally not too difficult to get them upstairs—just distract them enough that they don't look at any of the moving photographs on the walls. Most of the paintings are pretty good at freezing in place like it's a game of Grandmother's Footsteps and just resigning themselves to glaring at Sirius judgmentally. However, getting the muggles _out_ of the house is harder. Staying the night is basically out of the question. Sirius keeps the bathroom on his floor pretty much free of anything magical, but the other rooms are wildcards.

But he'll deal with that later. The whole house is dark when Sirius creaks open the door and brings the boy inside, which means that Harry probably isn't home yet himself. If he is out with Ron and his other young Auror friends they could be out until morning, knowing them. Which is good.

Sirius kisses the muggle. Kissing and moving. It's the best way to get them upstairs. The boy is keen and enthusiastic, feeling Sirius up as they move. His hand sneaks under Sirius' shirt, down the back of his jeans, into his hair. On the first landing, they pause for a minute as the boy drops his head to suck a spot on Sirius' neck, and he groans.

'Fuck, yes—' He loops his finger in the belt loop of the boy's jeans and tugs. 'Upstairs.'

On the second landing, Sirius freezes again—but for a different reason. A thin sliver of light falls across the rug beneath his feet. He looks up and, with a jolt, realises that Harry's bedroom door is slightly ajar and a light is on inside. Feeling his stomach plummet, he whispers a quick _shh_ to the muggle boy. He hasn't been bothering to be remotely quiet, assuming Harry was still out of the house.

'Is your housemate home?' the boy asks quietly. He sounds vaguely amused.

'I think...' Sirius does a quick scan of the landing. The only photo up here is the one of James and Lily, a few feet away, and the one painting on the wall is sitting completely still and silent—although when Sirius locks eyes with it, its gaze is extremely condemnatory. 'Wait here for a mo,' he says, and leaves the muggle behind while he creeps toward his godson's door. Perhaps he just left the light on before going out.

Cautiously, Sirius pushes the door open a crack further and looks inside.

The moment he peeks past the threshold of the door, he knows he should not have. Before his brain can process what he is seeing, he notices the change in sounds—any noise of traffic, or creak of the old house, or whisper from the muggle behind him falls away. It's like switching between channels on a radio. Instead, he hears Harry—moaning. Trembling sighs, heavy breaths, low grunts. He sounds unselfconscious, with no concern of being overheard; thanks to what Sirius realises immediately is a silencing charm up around his bedroom.

What Sirius sees imprints on him immediately and he wonders, fleetingly, if he will ever be able to do anything else without seeing this branded in his mind's eye. Harry is naked, lying face down on the bed, arms folded under his head and his face turned toward the door. Eyes closed, glasses pushed wonky by his arm, mouth open and making those beautiful sounds. There is a pillow propped under his hips and Harry is grinding slowly against it, his back and arse a wave-like curve. His toes are curling, his thighs trembling, a warm flush making his body glow in the low light.

Sirius stands in the doorway for the space of maybe five heartbeats, before he comes to himself and takes a stumbling step backwards. He thinks, blessedly, that Harry is too caught up to have noticed him—but just on the brief second of that last heartbeat, he sees a flash of green behind the glint of Harry's glasses, and he knows he has been seen.

The muggle is standing a few paces away in the hallway, looking expectant.

'He's—' Sirius' voice cracks for a moment. He coughs, clearing it. Harry can't hear him, at least—hasn't heard anything since Sirius got home. 'He's asleep, just left the light on.'

'Shall we get upstairs?' says the muggle.

Sirius has to clear his throat again before he can answer. 'Yes. Yes, let's—'

He takes the boy upstairs and takes him to bed. It would be a good, clean shag, if not for the fact that there is not a second of it that those five heartbeats downstairs are not playing like a movie inside Sirius' head. And it is Harry's soft moans he hears ringing in his ears when he comes.

*

The muggle leaves pretty much as soon as they're done. Sirius pulls on enough clothes to let him out the front door, and then flees back to his bedroom. He notices on the way that the light in Harry's bedroom is off now, but the door is still ajar. He doesn't exactly deliberately pause to look inside, but from the brief glimpse that he gets, Harry seems to be fast asleep with this blankets tangled around his hips and still stunningly naked.

Once in his room with the door shut, Sirius' first instinct is to turn into a dog. The image of his godson rubbing himself off against that pillow is seared into his brain. Sirius groans and leans against the door, scrubbing a hand down his face. Fuck.

His chest is thudding with want, despite the fact that he just got off. He feels ashamed, angry at himself for looking as long as he did, and scared. Scared, because he knows that Harry saw him and he is going to have to face him in the morning. Look him in the eye, knowing what he looks like naked and lost in pleasure.

Sirius crosses the room and drops down onto his mattress. He grabs a pillow from behind his head and slams it over his face, allowing himself one long muffled groan. He can't transform. He would love to: as a dog, his mind runs in straight lines, his emotions are less conflicted. He would be able to sleep. But he knows there is a good chance that Harry will come and find him in the morning, and if he is still asleep and transformed then… Well. He gives away too much as a dog. Instinct struggles to tell the difference between Harry and his memories of James.

So he won't do that. His bed is still kind of sticky and gross from fucking in it, but he casts a quick rough cleaning spell and rolls onto his stomach, buries his face in his arms and squeezes his eyes shut.


	8. Chapter 8

Sirius goes downstairs in the morning and finds Harry in his bedroom, with the door thrown wide open. His godson is sitting cross-legged on his bed, drinking coffee with a book open in his lap. He is wearing a loose t-shirt which falls off one shoulder and jeans, and he appears relaxed and cheerful.

As Sirius passes, he looks up and says brightly, 'Morning, Sirius. Have a good night?'

'Oh, uh, morning.' Pausing in his step, Sirius scratches his neck awkwardly. He can't quite meet Harry's eyes. He expected—at least—that Harry would be having the same problem as him and they could both spend a couple of days uncomfortably avoiding looking at each other. That would be the proper way to deal with this. That would be the British way.

But Harry looks quite unabashed. Maybe he never saw Sirius after all? Maybe he imagined seeing Harry's eyes open in that last moment.

'I had a great night,' Harry says, rolling his shoulder. 'Hung out with Ron and Seamus for a couple of drinks, got in early. How was your hookup? You got in—what time was it? About eleven?'

Ice slips down Sirius' spine. There is a hard glint in Harry's eyes that he has rarely seen before directed at him. 'I thought you didn't want to hear details,' he says.

'Didn't stay long, did he? Oh, well.'

'No, well, it was… nothing serious.'

Harry flips his book shut. 'Good,' he says, before taking a long drink from his coffee and standing up just as Sirius takes a step back towards the stairs. 'I was thinking, do you want to take me out to breakfast?'

Sirius blinks. 'Huh?'

'I'm hungry. You must be too, busy night and all. I could really go for a fry-up.' He grins at Sirius, pushing his thick hair out of his face. 'Please?'

The idea of sitting across from Harry in a cafe and being forced to look at him face on and talk to him while there is still that image seared into his brain from last night is overwhelming. But he cannot think of a good reason not to. Besides, he has plenty of years practice suppressing this sort of thing—it shouldn't be too hard to keep it from getting the better of him now.

'Sure,' Sirius says. 'Give me twenty minutes to get ready.'

Twenty minutes to get his head in order. He can do that. Sirius turns right on his heel and goes back upstairs. He doesn't do anything other then pull some boots on, really—but he spends nearly half an hour just sitting on his bed, hand pressed over his mouth, staring at the wall.

*

Although at no point does Harry say anything explicitly about Sirius walking in on him, the incident hangs between them for days, palpable. Over breakfast, Harry acts so aggressively normal and cheerful that it is almost like he is daring Sirius to say something. At home, he seems intent on driving Sirius crazy. He touches him constantly—nothing which Sirius can catch as unusual. He bumps his shoulder casually, he puts his feet on Sirius' lap when they're in the drawing room, he brushes his fingers across the back of Sirius' hand to get his attention. He stretches so that his clothes ride up to reveal tantalising hints of golden brown skin. It is so casual that Sirius would almost think he was imagining it, if it weren't for the glint in Harry's eyes when he catches him looking.

Sirius does his best to ignore it. He can't understand where it is coming from: it almost feels like Harry is testing him. Has he caught onto the fact that Sirius is attracted to him, and now he's trying to prove that Sirius can't keep it together? Is he trying to get Sirius to break somehow so that he will be able to say for sure that his godfather is a creepy pervert—and leave?

The thought chills Sirius to his bones. He doesn't want Harry to hate him, to move out. Which is why it is so, so important that Sirius just pull himself the fuck together and _deal with this_.

There is another explanation for Harry's behaviour, of course. Although it is probably both more likely and technically less upsetting, somehow it makes Sirius feel even worse. It is, quite simply, that Harry is just comfortable and relaxed, and Sirius is imagining any suggestive current behind it, projecting his own feelings onto his godson. Once again, the solution is simple: repress, repress, repress.

He visits Remus. They have not seen each other since the last full moon, which isn’t unusual at all. He can’t confide anything in him, of course—he can already picture clearly in his mind’s eye Remus’ thousand-yard stare if Sirius were to tell him about his problems with Harry. 

But he needs to escape the house, to see his friend, even if he can’t help.

The floor of Remus and Tonks’ house is, as always, littered in children’s toys. As he steps out of the fireplace, Sirius nearly trips on a small model tractor that is zooming across the floor. 

‘Uncle Padfoot!’ 

Teddy is a blur of colour as he bolts across the room and throws himself at Sirius, who drops down to the floor to grab him and pick him up around the waist. ‘Hey, mate,’ he says, spinning Teddy around as Remus enters the room, smiling and blinking tiredly. 

‘We’re in a dinosaur phase,’ Remus says, by way of explanation for the fact that Teddy is wearing leggings, a jumper, socks and a hat all decorated in brightly coloured dinosaur print. His hands are also scaled green like claws, and as Sirius holds him he swipes at him with them, letting out a soft _”Rarr!”_

‘It’s a good phase to be in,’ Sirius says. 

They sit in the living room and Remus makes them both cups of tea and his son a sandwich to keep him occupied, and Sirius feels, palpably, the distance between them. He doesn’t like to think of it that way, because he knows it is unfair. Remus is always available, and they transform together once a month without fail. But Sirius never quite… factored in Teddy when he thought about spending time with his friend. 

For a while, he thought that once that particularly intensive part of having a baby—when they’re still all soggy and wordless and little weird blobs of flesh—was over, it would almost be like when they were young again, and he would have Remus (at least sometimes) to himself. He did not quite factor in how much work children are past the age of one. 

He remembers James growing up rapidly after he had Harry, and it feeling like he and Lily were leaving the rest of them behind. Sirius didn’t think that would happen with Remus—for one thing, since he has _always_ seemed like the most grown up of all of them. 

But here they are. Sirius still lives in his family home, single, stagnant, the same as ever—and fancies his twenty year old godson. Remus is married to an Auror and is a full-time dad. 

‘How is Harry?’ Remus asks as they sit down on the sofa, and Teddy runs off to grab his collection of dinosaur books to show Sirius. ‘Adjusting to having him home all the time?’

Sirius frowns and picks some lint off his jeans. He glances at Remus, whose expression is open and curious. He is blowing on his drink with a raised eyebrow. 

‘It’s fine,’ Sirius replies stiffly. ‘Harry’s good.’ 

Years of history between them and an innate sense of every tone from Sirius has Remus’ eyebrow arching slowly at the words. But before he can say anything, Teddy is tumbling back into the room, arms laden with plastic coated books, and climbing up on the couch between them—his legs slipping on the cushions—to shove them into Sirius’ lap. 

‘Why don’t you get him to read your favourite?’ Remus suggests to his son, and watches with a wry smile as Sirius deflates, knowing that he’s going to be stuck here for possibly hours as Teddy walks him through every single piece of dinosaur paraphernalia he owns. 

When he gets home later that evening, he’s exhausted to his bones, at least. They had ended up taking a trip to the local park, where Sirius had helped Teddy climb to the top of the jungle gym over and over, half carrying him. 

And like this, at least he is too tired to think about Harry—at least for a night. 

* 

'Oy Sirius,' Harry says one morning later in the week. He has breezed into Sirius' bedroom and jumped onto the bed, wearing just his pajama bottoms. Sirius is still _in_ bed, only half awake. A moment before he had been glaring up at the ceiling and probably brooding, but he blinks at Harry now and feels his stomach twist again. 'Are you gonna take me to get my tattoo done today? The appointment is at eleven.'

He rubs his eyes and sits halfway up. 'Yeah. Thanks. I almost forgot.' (This is a lie. Sirius has been thinking about it all morning. He is starting to wonder if he has a fixation.)

'You don't have to get out of bed yet,' Harry says, flopping down next to him. 'It's only eight thirty.' With a soft laugh, Harry reaches out and runs his fingers through a strand of Sirius' hair. 'You have a bird's nest going, you know.'

Counting his breaths, Sirius waits for Harry to drop his hand from where it is toying at his hair. Only, breaths turn into long seconds and Harry is still teasing it out. His fingers card through Sirius' hair, making his skin tingle and pleasant shivers run down his spine. The look on Harry's face, close beside him on the bed, is thoughtless and easygoing.

Eventually, Sirius just reaches up and runs his own hand through his hair, pushing it back out of his face, and Harry finally drops his hand.

Sirius lies down again. 'Are you looking forward to it?'

'The tattoo? Yeah.'

'Not having second thoughts?'

'Not at all. The more I think about it, the more I like it.' Again, Harry reaches out to touch him, tracing the line of one of Sirius' tattoos on the inside of his forearm. Sirius squeezes his eyes shut. 'It's like, my scar...' Harry continues. 'It will be nice to have something on my body that _I_ chose.'

'I like that,' Sirius says. Despite his better judgement, he shifts his arm slightly so that instead of outlining the tattoo on his arm, Harry's hand is grazing the inside of his palm. Only briefly, Sirius tangles their fingers together and squeezes. He blinks his eyes open to look at his godson. 'I'm proud of you.'

Harry laughs. 'Who knows, I might chicken out as soon as it starts.'

'You won't. I know what you can cope with. This is nothing.' Sirius waves it off. 'Literally nothing. You'll barely feel it.'

He carefully extracts his hand from Harry's. As if taking a cue, Harry pushes himself up into sitting again and swings his legs off the bed. 'I'll see you downstairs,' he says, and heads to the door.

'Wear something that's not going to cover the tattoo afterward!' Sirius calls after him.

Harry waves in acknowledgement and disappears.

*

Sometimes Sirius gets angry at himself for seeing glimpses of James in his godson. He has been criticised more than once for acting as though he has his best friend back, and people have questioned sometimes whether Sirius can even tell them apart. He can.

For every similarity between Harry and his father, there are a hundred ways they are different. James, for instance, had accompanied Sirius to get the odd tattoo here and there, but had never once shown any interest in getting any himself: he liked his body well enough as it was, and never had much interest in changing things about himself, except occasionally his gender. He grew up, matured and adapted slowly—but at his core, James knew who he was, liked himself, and had little desire to make any statement beyond that.

Harry is different. He has a strong, true centre—but he doubts it often. He rarely sees in himself what others see as so special, and he is adaptable. He reflects the people around him. Sirius has watched him alone with Ron—when together, they laugh often and their voices raise and they scrap and play and act as brothers. Alone with Hermione, however, Harry is quieter and more settled—but also more willing to talk about himself. With Sirius, he tends to be more outgoing and spontaneous and picks up the mannerisms he knows Sirius appreciates. None of these things, Sirius thinks, detract at all from the central things that make Harry himself. But he is reactive and responsive to people in an innate, subconscious way that his father perhaps never was.

And, Sirius thinks, it's things like this: seeing Harry sitting on a leather bench at a tattoo studio with his white vest half off with the expression on his face serious and firm. As much as Harry looks like his father, James never held his face like this. Harry has something set about him, which speaks to having seen things he should not have, much too young. He has a resoluteness to his gaze and a firm dedication that shows more than bravery (which James had in spades), but a darkness that cannot be undone. It is a darkness which sits in harmony with his goodness. An iron core, or… something.

Right now, it is showing itself simply as a resolution not to flinch as the tattooist readies the needle and ink and gets ready to make the first mark.

'I'll just do the one dot,' the tattooist says. 'And you tell me if it's okay.'

Harry breathes out a laugh. 'Okay.' He cocks his head as the needle pricks his skin, just the once. 'Oh yeah, that's fine.'

'See, told you you've had worse,' Sirius says, leaning back in the chair next to where the tattooist is working on Harry.

'You don't have to wait here the whole time, you know,' Harry says to him. 'If you want to go get a coffee or something.'

'We'll be a few hours,' the tattooist agrees. 'This is a fair sized piece.'

'All good,' Sirius says, because the truth is, he is fascinated to watch. 'I'll head out if I get bored. Gotta support my godson.'

Harry, flushing slightly, casts a quick glance at the tattooist—and Sirius remembers him asking if they were together.

'Godson, hey,' the tattooist says conversationally. 'I remember you saying about your parents.' He doesn't look up from his work, but he asks Sirius, 'Did you raise him, then?'

'No,' Harry says quickly, cutting in. 'Not—not really. I didn't meet Sirius until I was thirteen.'

'I was in prison before that,' Sirius adds.

'Wow.' The tattooist pauses, dabbing a bit of excess ink off the tattoo. He glances at them both. 'Sounds like you've had an interesting time of it.'

Harry laughs. 'You don't know the half,' he says, honestly.

The next few hours pass slowly. Sirius does eventually get bored and pop out for a coffee and a browse around the nearby shops. He also, not that he really admits it even to himself, needs to cool off a little bit from watching the tattoo take shape on Harry's shoulder and neck. It is even more beautiful than he was anticipating: a stylized, almost carved looking portrait of a doe sitting across Harry's shoulder and edging towards his clavicle and then—on the slope of Harry's shoulder and up his neck, an equally stunning stag, the tip of one antler curving up behind Harry's ear.

He finds himself wandering through a nice old record shop for a solid half-hour, and before he even realises what he is doing he has an armful of records he reckons Harry will like. He isn't doing a great job at chilling it with the gifts as Hermione suggested. But then, Harry isn't chilling it with _anything_ , so. Before he knows it he's handing over £120 for a stack of vintage records and asking for them to be wrapped up.

'Just the brown paper is fine,' he says, slumping slightly on the counter in mild exasperation at himself. 'Thank you.'

He carries the records back to the tattoo studio with a cup of coffee balanced on top, and waves at the receptionist as he goes back to sit next to Harry. The tattoo is looking pretty close to finished—it's all detailing now. Harry's face is screwed up in mild pain as the needle drums against his clavicle, but he grins at Sirius.

'What did you buy?'

'Just some stuff for you,' Sirius says, pulling the lid off his coffee to sip at it. 'You can go through them when we get home.'

'You spoil—ow. You spoil me,' Harry says, biting down on his lip to keep still.

'Nearly there,' says the tattooist.

'What else am I going to do with all this money?' Sirius mutters into his coffee.

Finally, the tattooist cleans off the tattoo, applies a thin layer of ointment, and covers it with plastic wrap. 'Take that off in an hour or so,' he says, and explains the process of aftercare to Harry. He gives him a tube of lotion and glances at Sirius' arms and says, 'And I'm sure your godfather knows most of this, as well, looking at him. Don't put your hoodie back on today.'

Harry nods, although he looks like he's slightly distracted inspecting his own shoulder. 'Wow. Thank you. I love it.' He glances at Sirius. 'Mrs Weasley is going to kill me.'

Sirius snorts. 'I want to be there for that,' he agrees. But he, like Harry, is only half paying attention. His eyes keep tracing the line of Harry's neck and shoulder, the curve of his jaw emphasised by the lines of the tattoo, the shape of his lips...

Harry jumps up and ties his hoodie around his hips. He bites his nail and looks at Sirius. 'What do you think?'

'You look—it looks great.' He knows his eyes are still lingering longer than they should be. Forcefully, he looks up and turns away. 'Alright, let's go pay and get you home.'

On the motorbike ride home Harry sits snugly behind Sirius, wrapping his bare arms around his midsection. He smells like lotion and vaguely of sweat from being in moderate pain for a few hours. 'You're the best, daddy,' Harry murmurs into Sirius' ear, laughing, just before the bike rumbles into life.

Sirius nearly drives straight into a wall.

*

Harry must be working very, very hard to drive Sirius to the point of insanity. It may not look like he is working hard, just sitting opposite him in a restaurant wearing a button down shirt open halfway down his chest and tearing into some naan bread. The skin around his tattoo is somewhat bruised, peppering his neck with patches of red which Sirius should _not_ be thinking make him look as though he has been peppered with love-bites. Sirius feels like he is choking.

He takes a long drink of wine.

'Can I tell you something funny?' Harry asks, glancing up at Sirius.

Sirius is learning to be cautious with himself around Harry at the moment. He insisted they go out to dinner tonight because Harry was spending all his time at home shirtless and rubbing lotion into his shoulder. Public feels better, safer. If he is going to have to handle the fact he's hopelessly attracted to his godson, he is going to do his fucking best to do what is _right_ by Harry and do absolutely nothing about it. Which means being in public. Which means not thinking about him naked. Which means pulling it the fuck together.

Sirius puts his glass down. 'Yeah, what is it?' 

'That waitress thinks we are on a date.' Harry says it lightly, amused. His eyes are hard on Sirius across the table.

Sirius forces a laugh. 'I don't think so.'

'No, she does. That's why she expected you to order for me.' Harry chews on a piece of naan thoughtfully. 'Didn't you notice? She was looking at you really pointedly. Isn't it weird when people do that?' Taking a sip of his own wine, Harry adds: 'I can order for myself.'

'Well, you're going to have to,' Sirius replies. 'I'm no legilimens.'

'I think the idea is like, you'd know better than me what I should eat, so I don't have to order. Weird, isn't it?'

Sirius pulls a face. 'That's stupid. What if you had an allergy?' He blinks, then adds quickly, 'You don't have any allergies, do you?'

'Not to my knowledge.'

'Good.'

Harry props his chin on his hand on the table. 'Wouldn't that be funny, though?'

'What would be? If you were allergic to shellfish or something?'

' _No_ ,' Harry says. 'If we were on a date.'

Sirius goes still, glass halfway to his lips. He narrows his eyes at Harry, who is just smiling at him easily. 'I, ah, don't think...'

'No, come on. Imagine it, Sirius. It would be a bit funny.'

Abruptly, Sirius pushes back his chair and stands up. 'I'm going to the bathroom,' he says, and crosses the restaurant briskly. He shuts himself in the toilet and locks the door behind him, leaning against it and letting out a long groan, slamming his head back against the wood.

That night, after they’ve gotten home, he tells Harry he’s heading out again. He doesn’t say much, but they both know what he means. He has changed clothes, and Harry frowns at him, doesn’t say anything at all. 

However, just as Sirius is about to open the door, Harry stops him. Sirius feels a hand on his arm, holding him in place, and slowly turns around. Harry is looking up at him, jaw set and gaze dark. 'Don't bring them home,' he says.

He sounds hard and serious, but something scratches in his throat, a bit like a plea. Sirius pushes the door closed again. 'Harry?'

'Just…' Squeezing his hand tighter on Sirius' arm, Harry rubs his other hand over his face. 'Go home with them, whatever. But just, don't bring them back here, I—I'm sorry, I sound like a—' He cuts himself off, snorting bitterly. 'I sound like a jealous girlfriend or something, but...'

Sirius turns fully to face him, reaching out to grip Harry's upper-arms, rubbing comfortingly. 'What's wrong?'

'I don't like knowing you're upstairs with them,' Harry says. He is still looking at Sirius with his jaw jutted forward, challenging. His brows are furrowed with irritation.

Guilt washes over Sirius. 'You're right,' he says. 'I shouldn't be… exposing you to that.'

Harry rolls his eyes. 'You don't need to say it like I'm naive,' he says.

'No, you're not, but it's still not something you should have to know about me.'

'That's not—'

Sirius shakes his head and drops his hands from Harry's shoulders. 'I promise I won't bring them home anymore,' he says. 'And I won't go out tonight.'

Harry lets out a breath. '…Thanks,' he mutters. 'Sorry.'

'No, don't be.' Sirius laughs. 'I'm an arse. I didn't think that you—you're right.' He remembers how it felt when James would sneak off with Lily when they were kids, and the cold, lonely feeling of being left behind, thinking about it. 'Hey, let's just… listen to the radio or something.'

The problem, of course, is that this does _not_ solve the problem of how incredibly sexually frustrated Sirius is right now. In fact, it only enhances it when they sit down on the couch and Harry does what he has taken to doing recently, and presses himself close to Sirius, resting his head on his shoulder and closing his eyes.

Harry is so warm. He smells familiar and clean. Swallowing, Sirius turns on the radio, tuning through channels until they end up on a serial drama they haven't listened to for months.

'I have no idea what's happening,' Harry murmurs after a few minutes. He scratches under his chin, still leaning on Sirius, before shifting his fingers to start tracing where the tattoo sits on his throat. The sight makes Sirius' tongue go dry. 'Did Fridwulfa cheat on her husband?'

'Sounds like it,' Sirius replies with difficulty.

'But she's kidnapped, er, someone's daughter?' Harry listens for a few moments. 'Wow, a lot has happened since we last checked in.'

'Did Leopold come back from the dead again?'

'Well, we knew _that_ was coming.'

Shifting, Harry drops his hand so that it's sitting on Sirius' thigh.

Sirius grits his teeth. 'Yeah, I guess so,' he replies. 'What was the point in killing him off in the first—'

'Shh! We're missing something.'

Harry's hand resting on the outside of his jeans seems to be burning through to Sirius' skin. He has no idea if Harry realises it's there. As they sit and listen to the show, Harry's hand starts to move, thumb rubbing soft circles along the inside of Sirius' thigh, along the seam of his jeans.

Sirius lets his head fall onto the back of the sofa, stifling an exhalation. Fortunately, it coincides with a particularly dramatic reveal in the soap, where Fridwulfa's polyjuice potion wears off to show that she was actually her long lost sister all along.

'Wow!' says Harry, but—at the same time—shifts his hand up an inch higher on Sirius' leg. Sirius blows a strand of hair out of his face. Against his will, he can feel interest stirring inside him in response to the touch, and he knows he has to get Harry to move his hand— _off him_. But he also doesn't want to draw Harry's attention (a) to his own actions, or (b) to Sirius' response to it. He is pretty sure Harry is just caught up with the show and is fiddling subconsciously, fingers tracing soft patterns on the outside of Sirius' jeans. If he moves his hand, it's going to be obvious that he was reacting to it.

Caught with indecision, Sirius endures for as long as he can, listening intently to the show as Harry makes wry comments and, the whole time, sends spikes of warm pleasure to Sirius' stomach as he continues the teasing movements of his hand.

Sirius can't take it anymore. He can feel his cock stirring with interest, and that's—that is not something he can handle, sitting here, visibly aroused with his godson curled right up against him. As the show transitions into an advert for pixie dust blackhead removal cream, he pushes himself to his feet and announces he's going to the bathroom.

Harry jolts slightly, sitting up properly so that he doesn't tip over into the space where Sirius was sitting. He blinks as if he had been dozing off slightly. 'Oh, right.'

But Sirius does not go to the bathroom. He hurries upstairs to his bedroom and shuts the door firmly behind him, casting three separate locking charms before he flops onto his bed on his back and presses his palm against his dick through the front of his jeans. The zipper digs in almost painfully, but that's okay—that's good. He does not _want_ to jerk off in the ad break of a shitty soap opera thinking about his godson. But maybe it's happening.

Squeezing his eyes shut, he opens the front of his trousers and slips his hand into his underwear to pull out his cock. He can still feel the ghost of Harry's touch, teasing him, rubbing up the line of his thigh. He knows this is on him: he was already wound up tonight, enough that he had been planning an escape and a quick shag.

But also—there is no way Harry can't know what he is doing to him. For a blessed moment, he allows himself to think about it. Lets himself imagine that Harry is fully aware of the effect he is having on Sirius and wants it—is deliberately encouraging it. He pictures himself downstairs, again, Harry's hand creeping higher still until he is rubbing over Sirius' cock through his jeans—just how he himself had done a moment ago. Imagines Harry squeezing his hand, turning in the chair to brush his lips over his jaw.

Sirius groans aloud. Imagining that his hand is Harry's, he shuffles his jeans and briefs out of the way and strokes his cock firmly. Arousal crashes through him, and he finds himself thrusting up into his grip almost subconsciously, hurtling toward orgasm faster than he has in a long time. He can almost feel Harry kissing up and down his neck, reaching up with his free hand to turn Sirius' face towards him and graze their lips together.

In his imagination, Sirius pants into Harry's mouth as he jerks up into his hand. _'C'mon, yes,'_ Harry murmurs against his lips, squeezing his hand tighter.

He can picture Harry moving so that he is half kneeling, one hand stroking Sirius' cock quickly, roughly—other hand fumbling with the front of his own jeans, slipping inside. Harry moaning against his mouth, encouraging him to come: _'Please, I want to see..._ '

Slamming his fist over his mouth and biting down had into the silver ring on his forefinger, Sirius jerks his hips once more and spills over his hand. Ropes of come shoot across his shirt, halfway up his chest. The picture in his mind stays vivid: Harry following him over the brink, shooting off so that their come mingles together on Sirius' stomach, and—

And slowly Sirius comes down, fantasy fading back into reality where he can still vaguely hear the radio playing downstairs. 'Fuck,' he mutters. He feels about for his wand and casts a cleaning charm on his shirt with shaking fingers. But even with the evidence gone, he feels the need to pull the shirt off over his head as he sits up. He reaches for another one, swapping them, before burying his face in his hands.

He lets out a noise of frustration into his palms. God, but this felt _good_. He shouldn't have done that. Not now, when he still has to go back downstairs and sit with Harry again. Vaguely, he knows that he has to get up _now_. It was a quick wank, but probably not quick enough that if he doesn't move soon he'll be able to play it off as a toilet break.

Pushing himself up off the bed, he unlocks the door with his wand and goes into the bathroom. His whole body feels satisfied and a little weak. There is nothing he would prefer than just to flop down and not move. But he washes his hands—at least the sound of the taps running maintains his deniability of just going to pee—and dries them before descending the stairs.

At the door to the drawing room, he notices that Harry has moved. He is now lying down on one arm of the couch, legs bent so that there is room for Sirius. He is also squinting at him, gaze a little too suspicious.

'What did I miss?' Sirius asks casually, crossing over to the sofa.

But Harry doesn't answer the question. Instead he just folds his arms and asks disbelievingly, 'Did you just go have a wank?'

Sirius is halfway to sitting down. His stomach drops out from beneath him. 'What?' he says indignantly. 'You can't ask me that!'

'I think I just did.' Harry's expression is caught between incredulous and highly amused. 'You did! You went upstairs and got off.'

Sirius shakes his head, a bit like a dog rattling off dust. 'Harry, bloody hell. You seriously can't—you can't say that, I'm your _godfather_.' The hypocrisy, of course, of accusing Harry of being inappropriate when he just jerked off to thoughts about his godson does not escape him. But desperate times, etc.

'I can't believe you!' Harry says, but he is laughing, tipping his head back over the arm of the chair. 'You changed your shirt, you idiot.'

'Yeah, I wanted to change my shirt,' Sirius says, scowling. 'The other one was itchy.'

'Yeah, obviously,' Harry replies sceptically, before swinging his legs off the chair, still snickering. He stands up and wanders towards the door.

'Where are you going?'

Without looking over his shoulder, Harry shoots Sirius the two fingered salute and says, 'To go have a wank.' For the life of him, Sirius cannot tell if he is joking or not.

*

Maybe it is ill-considered, but Sirius' first and only instinct after that is to go out the next day and buy Harry a nice set of colognes. And a peacoat. And an engraved coffee thermos. It is a dreary, overcast day and he spends most of it wandering around Soho in the light drizzle, popping in and out of shops.

There is just really something to be said, he thinks, for transferring all your affection into expensive gifts. Surely that is reasonable.

He heads home in the afternoon, laden with several bags of _things_ (mostly for Harry, but also some new boots for himself and a few groceries). As soon as he steps in the door, he can tell that Harry has visitors: voices are drifting down from upstairs, laughing and chatting loudly. Sirius breathes out a sigh of relief, glad for the distraction from being left alone with his stupid sexy godson. He goes down to the kitchen, unpacking the groceries, and then heads upstairs. He stops by Harry's bedroom to see Ron, Hermione and Luna all piled onto the bed with Harry: they have a small black and white television perched on top of the dresser which seems to be showing a game of Quidditch.

Ron is on his knees, shouting at the fuzzy, staticy image on the screen. Luna is sitting cross-legged, watching with her head cocked at an angle. Hermione is leaning against the wall behind them, not paying any attention to the game at all, her nose buried in a book, and Harry is lying, stretched out on the bed, his head on Luna's lap, watching with interest.

'Hi, Sirius,' Luna says airily, the first to notice him. 'You look very damp.' The other three look up at her words and greet him—Harry just tilts his head and grins.

'How on earth did you get the telly showing Quidditch?' Sirius asks, dropping the rest of his shopping outside the door and stepping into Harry's room to look at the screen, impressed.

'Hermione did it,' Ron says, then to one of the players on screen: 'NO. NO, THE QUAFFLE IS THAT WAY YOU BLOODY—'

'It was easy,' Hermione says. She looks up from her book long enough to give Sirius a piercing look which has nothing to do with sport. He tries to look innocent. 'Easier than going to the game in this weather, anyway.'

'Hard to tell the players apart without colour, though,' Harry points out.

Ron shakes his head. 'Nah, it isn't. You can tell who the Tornadoes are, because they're the ones WHO CAN'T SEEM TO SEE THE BLOODY BALLS.'

'You're sure they're not flying in the wrong direction on purpose?' Luna asks, toying with Harry's hair absentmindedly.

'Pretty sure,' Harry tells her. He glances at Sirius again. 'You're welcome to watch the game, if you want.' He pats the space just behind him on the bed.

'There a reason you're not doing this in the living room with the good television?'

'That's a plasma display,' Hermione says. 'I haven't worked out how to do it with any other types of screens yet. But this works. Mostly.'

With a sigh, Sirius edges around the bed and climbs up behind Harry, joining them. It feels weird to spend time with Harry's friends like this, almost as if they're still kids he should be supervising or something. But they're not, and he would definitely like to watch a game of Quidditch, if it's happening.

'How far in is it?'

'About ten minutes,' Harry says. He moves around slightly so that his feet are resting in Sirius' lap. 'You haven't missed anything. No one has scored.'

They watch the game companionably for a while until, out of the blue, Ron stops shouting at the players who can’t hear him and says to Sirius: ‘So what’s with the mini-me thing?’ 

Sirius jerks his head up. ‘What?’ 

Harry rolls his eyes. ‘He’s talking about the tattoo,’ he explains. ‘He’s been on this thing all day about it.’ 

‘I like it,’ Ron says. ‘I’m just saying, the tattoo, the new leather jacket, all that stuff. It’s just very on-brand.’ 

Hermione snorts into her book, and with a glance, Sirius can see her giving him a piercing stare. His stomach flips guiltily. 

‘There is no brand,’ he insists. ‘It was Harry’s idea.’ 

‘That’s what I said,’ says Harry. 

‘It’s cool,’ Ron says. ‘Too cool for you.’ 

‘Why do you think I’m not cool?’ Harry asks, sounding offended—but laughing. He and Ron argue for a while (in what is clearly a continuation of a previous argument) but they eventually segue back into shouting at the game. 

Sirius, the whole time, ignores the feeling of Hermione’s gaze on him, watching him carefully. 

*

After Harry’s friends have gone home, Sirius gives Harry the presents he bought today. He feels very aware of himself as he does so, Ron’s comments and Hermione’s prior warnings ringing like claxon bells in his head. But he does it anyway. 

Harry looks at the peacoat with a slightly thoughtful expression, turning it over in his hands and feeling the fabric. 'This is nice,' he says, then puts it down on the bed. He turns away, wandering over to where his other jacket is thrown over the back of his chair and says, 'Actually, I got you something today too.'

Sirius blinks. 'You did?'

'It's stupid, don't get too excited.' Harry reaches into the pocket of the jacket and pulls something out. It's small enough to fit inside his closed hand. Harry takes a quick glance at whatever he is holding and lets out a short laugh. 'Merlin, I regret this already. Sorry, it's not wrapped.'

Sirius feels one side of his mouth pull into a grin and he cocks his head to the side curiously. He feels oddly nervous. He cannot think of any time, outside of Christmas and birthdays, that Harry has ever given him a present. It feels like a tilt in their dynamic, just slightly off-balance enough to make his blood rush a little faster.

Harry steps across the room to stand in front of him. It is getting dark outside and the lilac hues of the setting sun through the window is the only source of light in the room. The light catches on Harry's hair and the frame of his glasses, glinting slightly. His tattoo gleams slightly in the setting sun, still carrying a slight sheen compared with the rest of his skin.

He holds his hands out, fingers wrapped around whatever he is holding. 'Er, close your eyes, maybe,' he says.

Sirius looks into his godson's eyes for a few moments—he's looking up at him with soft, amused sincerity, bright green eyes framed with dark lashes. Obediently, he shuts his eyes, breathing out through his nose, and holds out one hand.

Something cool and a little bit heavy is placed into his palm. It feels about the size of a matchbox, but it has a bit of heft to it. Looking down, Sirius opens his eyes.

In his palm sits a small, ceramic statuette of a dog. It looks nothing like Sirius does when he is a dog. It is clearly meant to be a Staffordshire bull terrier: in fact, it is almost uncannily lifelike. From its sad black eyes, to the soft pink of its muzzle, belly and weirdly detailed genitals. Each of the two front legs of the dog (which is in a sitting position, back paws splayed outward) are decorated in tattoos. A black feline skull with a bowtie and fairy wings. A series of bones. A tribal pattern. Some vague looking runes. BONE and BUST are printed on top of each paw, as if they are knuckles. One of the dog's ears is decorated with a series of thick, gold rings which (Sirius flicks them) move independently from the rest of the statuette.

The grin that spreads over Sirius' face is almost painfully wide. 'Where the fuck did you find this?'

'I noticed them when we were picking Luna up from the train station.' Harry pauses. 'There was a black shaggy dog too, but it didn't have tattoos. It did have a cigarette, though. What do you think?'

'I think it is the most beautiful thing I've ever seen,' Sirius says.

Harry is still standing very close. A bit too close, probably. 'Yeah?' he murmurs.

Without thinking about it, Sirius pockets the dog and closes the barely-there distance between him and Harry. He reaches out with one hand, fingers brushing the back of Harry's neck—and that is all he has to do. A breath later, Harry is leaning in and kissing him.

It is too easy. It feels like the most natural thing in the world to part his lips to Harry's, to kiss back. It is a quiet, still moment. Frozen in the fading light, caught in the semi-dark room. Then Harry makes a soft noise against his mouth and brings his arms up to wrap around Sirius' neck, fingers tangling in his long hair. A wave of desire crashes through Sirius. It is though a dam breaks inside him, a controlled leak cracking out through layers of steel and concrete to send the whole thing crumbling down, washed away by a deluge of want.

His fingers curl around the back of Harry's neck, holding him close. He wraps his other arm around Harry's back and turns both their bodies to press him against the wall next to the door. Harry is incredibly responsive: the moment his back makes contact with the solid wall he groans and arches up against Sirius, legs parting slightly so that one of Sirius' knees can slip between them.

'I can't believe all I had to do was give you a stupid dog toy,' Harry mutters against Sirius' mouth, then groans as Sirius catches his lower lip between his teeth and sucks it gently.

'Should we be doing this?' Sirius replies.

Harry hushes him, hips rolling up to grind them together. He says, 'Who cares?'

*

Ron and Hermione apparate home from the front step of Grimmauld Place, a familiar and easy movement. As soon as they get into the flat, Ron throws himself down on the bed and folds his arms behind his head. 'This is great,' he says. 'A whole month off. C'mere.'

Hermione wanders over and sits down next to him, smiling in amusement. 'You're not still upset about the game?'

'Wasn't my team, was it? The Cannons know where a bloody Keeper is meant to be.'

'Do they?' she asks innocently.

Ron grins. 'Oy,' he says, and laughs into Hermione's mouth as she leans down to kiss him, warm and affectionate.

She has missed having Ron around. The whole apartment is currently floor to ceiling S.P.E.W. reports and other stuff from work—stacks of parchment and endless binders of data and audits and minutes. She is never good at putting this stuff down when she is alone, but Ron is good at telling her when to stop—even if only for a while.

She straightens her back and raises an eyebrow at him. 'Come on, get up,' she says. 'Help me with dinner.'

Ron groans. 'Fine, fine.' He pushes himself off the bed, rolling his shoulders. 'House-elf driver, you are.'

With a flick of her wand, Hermione sends a balled up piece of parchment into his face. 'You can peel potatoes,' she says. 'And in fact, while we're talking about house elfs, I haven't even caught you up with this conference...'

Ron lets out an even more exasperated noise, but Hermione grins in good humour and they cook dinner comfortably, chatting and listening to the wireless as they do so. While things are in the oven, Ron grabs Hermione around the waist and kisses her again, swaying along with the Wyrd Sisters until they are both laughing too hard to make out.

'Let go of me,' Hermione manages to get out between giggles, pushing Ron away. 'The water is about to boil over.'

'Turn it off then,' Ron says, coming up behind her and brushing her hair out of the way to plant a sloppy kiss on her cheek. She shoos him away again.

'After we've eaten,' she says. 'I'm hungry.'

As she quickly drops some asparagus into the boiling water, Hermione thinks back to seeing Harry and Sirius today. She leans back into Ron's embrace, watching the water closely, and charms some salt into the pot with a swish of her wand.

'Harry seemed happy today, didn't he?' she asks.

'Yeah, course, why wouldn't he?'

'No reason...' she murmurs. It has been several weeks since he last expressed anything about his little Sirius problem, and as far as she can tell—tattoo aside—Sirius has, indeed, dialled it back a little bit with the presents and the pampering. 'I was just worried about him and Sirius alone in that big house for a while.'

'They're all good,' Ron says. 'They love hanging out. Did you see them today? Peas in a pod.'

'Yeah,' Hermione says. Harry did look relaxed, lying next to Sirius on the bed. 'I should really set up Harry with that nice boy from work.'

'May as well give it a shot,' Ron agrees.

Smiling, Hermione hovers the bunch of asparagus out of the water and onto a plate to cool. She flicks her wand for a little bit of balsamic to sprinkle across them, and then a block of fresh parmesan to grate itself on top.

_It's a good thing I spoke to them both_ , Hermione thinks to herself. I'm glad that has all worked out for the best.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is 90% porn so sorry, but also: you're welcome.

For years now his friends have been telling Harry to do things for himself. Take time off. Date someone nice. Be happy.

This might not have been what they meant.

He tilts his head back, panting heavily as Sirius kisses down his neck. His godfather is gripping at his hip with one hand, keeping him close. With the other he is tracing the shape of Harry's chest through his shirt, fabric bunching as he does so. Harry moans.

'Harry,' Sirius sighs, teeth dragging against his pulse point. ' _Harry_.'

Wiggling slightly, Harry clenches his fingers—tangled in Sirius' hair—and tries to chase the friction between them. They are both wearing far too many clothes, but he's horny _now_ and he wants to get onto the bed and have Sirius to himself. Nerves are catching in his stomach too. He knows he hasn't had much experience with any of this, and he wants Sirius to lead them forward.

But he is not. He's just panting into the crook of Harry's neck, nuzzling at him and rolling their hips slowly, teasingly together. His thumb is grazing over Harry's nipple through his t-shirt, the fingers of his other hand pressing into the swell of Harry's arse through his jeans and everything is much, much, much too clothed.

Harry pushes at Sirius' chest. The warm feeling of his mouth against his neck disappears as Sirius pulls back and looks at him. There is caution in his grey eyes, but also a twinkle of challenge. He has gone still, and Harry realises that Sirius is not going to make any further moves unless Harry makes them first.

'Can,' Harry starts, his own voice sounding lower and rougher than he has heard it before. He swallows. 'Can we, er, move to the bed?' His eyes flicker past Sirius' shoulder to the rumpled sheets behind him.

'Yes,' Sirius says, but doesn't move. His gaze is fixed on Harry's lips, dark eyelashes turned down, framing his shadowed eyes. Close up, Harry can't help but take in every millimeter of how handsome he is—the sharp lines of his cheekbones, the shape of his thick, dark eyebrows, rough stubble covering the curve of his jaw. His long straight nose, olive-brown skin and the swell of his lips. He may be distinctly older than Harry, but the effects of age and years of isolation, struggle, maltreatment have all settled into his healthier features like characteristic shadows.

Pushing up onto the balls of his feet, Harry presses his lips to Sirius' again and, nudging, shuffles them backward a step or two. Sirius goes easily. His hand still on Harry's hip slides around to press to the small of his back, under his shirt, fingers grazing at the top of Harry's jeans. Harry can feel the swell of Sirius' erection where they are pressed together—against his own.

Another step. Fingers slipping into the back of his jeans, digging into the curve of his arse. Another step. Harry opens his mouth for Sirius' tongue to slip inside. One more, and the bump of the mattress meeting Sirius' thighs.

And then, going down. Sirius drops onto the bed with a thump and Harry scrambles on with him, straddling his lap. Their kiss breaks only for a moment before Sirius growls low in his throat and pulls Harry in again. It is dizzying. Harry can feel need sparking across his skin, dancing out from wherever Sirius touches him. His heart is pounding fast in his chest.

'I haven't—' he says, even as he reaches down to tug at the hem of his godfather's shirt. He pulls it up halfway, other hand following to explore the bare skin of Sirius' stomach. 'I haven't done this before.'

Sirius stills. Shifts back enough to break the kiss—but his eyes stay closed. He seems to be squeezing them tightly shut and lets out a shaky breath which ghosts across Harry's cheek. His fingers dig in harder where they are gripping at Harry's arse. He drops his head again to bump his nose, dog-like, against the line of Harry's jaw. 'Do you want to?' he murmurs, voice gravelly.

Harry tilts his neck back. 'Yeah.'

'With me?'

' _Yeah_.' Heat lurches in Harry's stomach. His hand is on Sirius' chest under the loose fabric of his shirt, and he can feel the thud of his heartbeat against his fingertips. 'You—I trust you.' Sirius groans, the sound muffled as he sucks a mark into the soft skin under Harry's jaw. ' _Sirius_.'

'Mm?'

'Shirt,' Harry says. 'Off.'

Sirius chuckles. Stops mouthing at Harry's neck and sits back, but before Harry can pull his shirt off he lifts his hand up to trace the spot on Harry's neck where his lips just were. His eyes look stormy and his hips shift, thrusting up just a little to rub them together. Harry shivers.

Fingers trembling, he tugs Sirius' shirt up again and manages to get it off this time. Sirius shakes his hair out as the shirt pulls over his head, messing it up. He cups Harry's face with his hand, thumb brushing across his lower lip.

Harry darts his tongue out, tasting skin and the faint tang of nicotine.

'Hey,' Sirius says. 'You don't have to be nervous.'

'I'm not,' Harry shoots back automatically. It's half true. He feels like he is dancing right on the edge of nerves and desire.

Sirius quirks an eyebrow. 'Alright,' he says easily. 'Be a good boy and get undressed, then.'

Harry's cock twitches. He immediately reaches back over his head to grab his shirt by the collar and pull it off. He throws it into the corner of the room. Sirius runs both hands down the sides of Harry's body, causing his back to arch.

'You're gorgeous,' he mutters, thumbs tracing the shape of Harry's hip bones.

'I'm skinny,' Harry counters.

'Shh.' Sirius starts to fiddle with the button at the top of Harry's jeans. 'You just look like—' He cuts himself off, smiles wryly and leans in to kiss Harry. 'Sweetheart,' he murmurs into his mouth. 'Just take the bloody compliment.'

Moaning, Harry deepens the kiss. He pushes his tongue past Sirius' lips and wraps his arms around his neck. It feels better now that they are skin on skin. The hair on Sirius' chest and stomach tickles at Harry's skin, causing goosebumps. Something about Sirius calling him _sweetheart_ , of all things, has settled like a warmth inside his chest—a glow of approval. He presses forward—not breaking the kiss—so that Sirius falls onto his back and Harry can lie on top of him, rubbing them together. His jeans are halfway unbuttoned now, but Sirius has stopped trying to get them off: instead he has just shoved both hands back down the back of his trousers to knead at his arse again.

And then suddenly—Sirius rolls them over so that it is Harry who can feel the soft sheets under his back and so that it is Harry who is blinking up at the ceiling, chest rising and falling, as Sirius sits up.

'Stay there,' Sirius says, with a hand pressed to Harry's stomach. Harry nods and doesn't move, just turning his head to watch him. His godfather's hair is falling with casual elegance across his face. He pushes it back out of his eyes, looking down at Harry as though he cannot believe what he is seeing. 'I'm just going to...'

Sirius' hands drop down and unzip his own jeans. He peels them off his narrow hips and Harry's mouth goes dry as he sees the thick outline of his cock through his briefs. Then those are pulled down too, and Harry's mouth goes wet again. He pushes himself up onto his elbows and makes a move forward, reaching out.

'Oy,' Sirius says as he lifts his knee to kick his trousers and pants off over his feet. 'Just lie still for two minutes.'

'Nah,' Harry replies, crawling forward. Sirius' prick is curved up toward his belly, red tipped and mouthwatering and Harry wants to do nothing more than touch/taste. He hears Sirius groan above him as he reaches out and brushes his fingers over his cock, wrapping them around the base of the shaft.

'Harry—' Sirius grits out, breaking off in a moan as Harry licks the head of his prick slowly, with the flat of his tongue.

Harry blinks up at him. 'Mm?' he hums, lips open against the warm skin of his cock. He can taste precum and salt.

'Nevermind,' Sirius says quickly. 'Keep, uh. You can keep doing what you're doing.'

'Thanks,' Harry says and swallows him down.

His eyes start to water the first time Sirius' cock bumps against the back of his throat, but his mouth feels full and it is amazing. Sirius is heavy on his tongue; throbbing, warm and heady in his mouth, clogging up his senses. Harry moans around him.

He can feel saliva slipping past his lips and sliding down his chin, mingled with pre-cum. His eyes sting with effort and Sirius is looking down at him, mouth open and panting, chest heaving. His hands have come down to stroke at Harry's hair, thumb rubbing softly, encouragingly on his scalp.

But soon, Harry has to pull off, gasping. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, catching his breath as he looks up at Sirius. 'Sorry,' he pants. It's too much, the stretch of his jaw, the effort of breathing as he sucks him down, the way his dick grazes the back of his throat. 'I can-'

'No.' Sirius pulls him up, still running one hand gently through his hair. He leans forward, catching Harry's lips again. Still getting his breath, Harry pants wetly against his godfather's mouth and jerks in surprise when he feels Sirius' hand slip into the half-open front of his jeans and rub his cock through the thin fabric of his pants.

'Ohh,' Harry gasps, tipping forward.

Sirius' stubble grazes his cheek. 'Can I get these off?' he mutters into Harry's ear.

'You better.' Harry moans, thrusting against Sirius' palm with abandon. 'Fuck.'

With a short bark of laughter, Sirius tips him back onto the bed again and pulls Harry's trousers and pants off quickly, prodding Harry to lift up his hips as he does so. Now they are both naked and Harry feels, well, exposed—but also jittery with want. He cards both hands through his own hair as he lets out a shaky, happy breath.

Sirius climbs over him, one leg slipping between Harry's and nudging them apart slightly. He leans over him, holding himself up with one hand on the mattress. His hair falls in a dark curtain, and his tattoos stand out on his arms in the low light.

'What do you want to do?' he murmurs in a low voice. He slides down so that their hips are pressed together, cocks squeezed against one another between their bellies. Harry hums out his approval, hooking one leg up around Sirius' to keep him in place. Sirius rolls his hips. 'Just like this?'

Barely thinking straight, Harry nods. This is fine. This is amazing. This would only be better if Sirius was kissing him.

'Or how about...?' Sirius moves again, sitting up, and Harry makes a noise of objection at the loss of friction. Apparently he is losing his ability to talk with coherent words. 

But quickly, Sirius rearranges Harry so that his legs are in the air, crossed at the ankles and hooked over one of Sirius' shoulders. He feels a bit ridiculous, and gets out a, 'What the hell are you—' before Sirius lines up his hips and slides his cock through the tight press between Harry's thighs and it becomes abundantly clear. He reaches down to stroke Harry's cock with his hand as he thrusts forward and Harry watches, transfixed, as the head of Sirius' cock appears and disappears between his thighs.

Harry's head thumps back onto the pillow behind him. 'Oh, _oh_.' With each press forward, Sirius' prick brushes Harry's balls. His hand is stroking roughly, quickly, so that Harry's back arches and he tries to push up into the feeling. It is a play at fucking, gentle and easy—but it has Sirius leaning over him, folding him in half, hips snapping against the back of his thighs. Sirius murmurs something—a spell—and a sudden feeling of wetness between his thighs makes Harry shiver with his full body.

Sirius groans, thrusting faster. Lubricated, every push of his cock is smooth and easy. When Harry sees the head peek out between his legs, it is swollen, red and shiny. Whatever lube Sirius has summoned slips down the back of Harry's legs slowly, sliding into the crack of his arse and down onto the bed.

He can tell he is going to come soon. Sirius is stroking him so quickly, pleasure is shooting through him and tension is building through his body. But he doesn't want to finish yet. He doesn't want this to end: he wants to stay like this, on this plateau, feeling Sirius' body against his. With one shaking hand, Harry reaches down and clutches at Sirius' fingers around his cock, encouraging him to slow. 'Daddy,' he breathes out, 'let me...'

Harry doesn't quite realise what he just said until he feels Sirius' full body tremor and looks up into his startled grey eyes to see them widening. Sirius does take his hand off his cock; but he doesn't let Harry replace it with his own. Instead he grabs both of Harry's wrists and pins them to the bed and bends forward to capture Harry's lips roughly, so that Harry's legs are twisted, strained and folded completely to his chest—toes curling up in the air over Sirius' shoulder.

'Ah—!' Harry gasps into Sirius' mouth. His godfather thrusts faster, and although his own prick is just pressed tight to his own belly now, Harry can still feel his orgasm building in his body.

'Fuck, Harry,' Sirius grunts, breaking the kiss enough to suck a bruising mark into Harry's jaw. 'You're so good. Shit.' He pulls back, releasing one of Harry's wrists so that he can tilt Harry's jaw with his thumb. 'Look at me,' he murmurs.

Harry blinks up at his godfather. He feels wrecked. His hair is sticking to his forehead with sweat and lube is slipping down everywhere between his legs. His lips feel bruised. But Sirius looks just as messy as he does, pupils blown wide and disbelief and arousal on his face in equal measure.

Harry squeezes his free hand between them to stroke at his cock with two fingers.

'I want to see you come,' Sirius murmurs. He straightens his back a little so that Harry is not folded completely in half, so that there is enough room for Harry to touch himself properly, for Sirius to see. 'Will you do that, baby boy? For me?'

Harry's cock throbs between his fingers and he nearly does right at Sirius' words. 'Yeah,' he breathes out. He looks down between them, watching his godfather's cock peek through his thighs again. 'You too, alright?'

Sirius nods, stroking Harry's hair as he thrusts a little faster. 'C'mon baby,' he says encouragingly. 'Get yourself there.'

It does not take much. Harry strokes his cock a few more times, fingers teasing right at the head, and then—somehow—it takes him almost by surprise. His body seizes up and his stomach clenches, and he is shooting off over himself, letting out an unbidden guttural moan. He doesn't take his eyes off Sirius even as his vision blurs for a moment. His godfather's gaze darkens and his mouth opens into a small _’o’_ , and then he is lifting up Harry's hand to his mouth, pressing a wet kiss to his palm and snapping his hips forward. He freezes, groans into Harry's hand, and comes. Ropes of spunk shoot over Harry's prick and mix with his own, pooling on his stomach.

Sirius slumps forward. Both hands go into Harry's hair and he pulls him into a long, slow kiss, shifting their bodies around as Harry unfolds himself so that he is just lying beneath his godfather, legs parted for Sirius to rest between them. Sighing happily, Harry lets his hands explore Sirius' back and shoulders. There is a sticky mess between them and all over Harry's legs, but that's okay. He feels like he's almost melting with pleasure, eyelids heavy. He kisses Sirius back lazily, opening his mouth up to him.

'Can you clean us up?' he murmurs eventually, fingers playing with the soft hair on Sirius' chest.

With his wand lying somewhere on the bed nearby, Sirius feels around blindly—still kissing Harry—until he can mutter a cleaning charm under his breath and, just like that, spunk and lube disappears between them and from the sheets under Harry's arse.

Seemingly reluctantly, Sirius rolls over and sits up. He pushes his messy hair back and smiles down at Harry, who does not sit. He doesn't feel like he can move. His whole body is heavy, soft cock still sensitive and throbbing between his legs, warmth still spreading out from his belly from his orgasm. 'Do you want to sleep?' Sirius asks. 'I can go.'

'Yes,' Harry replies, rubbing his eye with his knuckle. 'Wait, no. Yes to the first one. No to the second.'

Sirius seems to pause for a moment, then says, 'Alright. I'm just going to pop to the loo.'

He is gone for a while. Long enough that the warm feeling begins to leave Harry's body and he shifts around to curl up under his blankets, rest his head on his arm under the pillow and watch the door sleepily. Long enough, that he starts to think that this is like that time Sirius said he was getting Harry a sobering potion and didn't come back until well after Harry was asleep. He frowns. He definitely does not want to be left alone now. A shiver of unhappy fear climbs his spine. If Sirius doesn't come back, it means he regrets this. Or it means Harry wasn't good enough. Or...

Slowly, the door cracks open again and Sirius steps back into the room, still naked. Harry breathes out a sigh. He folds back the blankets on the other side of the bed, patting the mattress. Closing his eyes, Harry hears Sirius cross the room and feels the bed dip as he slides in next to him. Harry wiggles slightly closer and smiles as he feels Sirius' hand come out and settle on his hip. A nose bumps his, and then Sirius' lips press against his just once, softly.

'Harry...' Sirius murmurs, sounding hesitant.

Harry slips one leg between Sirius' and nuzzles his head into the pillow to get comfortable. He can feel his godfather's breath warm on his face, inches away. 'Goodnight,' Harry mumbles.

He starts to drift off almost immediately, and barely hears Sirius huff out a laugh and reply, '…Yeah. Goodnight.'

*

Harry blinks his eyes open to soft rays of morning sunlight and a faceful of thick, black fur. Sirius has spread out so that he's lying diagonally across the bed, paws splayed in front of him, and Harry is curled up behind him arm over his torso and back pressed to the wall. He blinks a few times and then smiles fondly.

'Sirius,' he murmurs. He scratches his fingers up his godfather's stomach, rubbing his belly through his fur—and earns himself a little leg twitch for his trouble.

Harry pushes himself up onto his elbow. Sirius is fast asleep, ears twitching slightly as he dreams. Harry watches him for a while, curiously. He wonders what dreaming is like as a dog. Sirius has said that he thinks like an animal when he's an animal, but it is also obvious that he retains his human mind. Is he dreaming about chasing rabbits?

Reaching up, Harry curls his fingers behind Sirius' ears and scratches slowly. 'Wake up,' he says, half-intending to ask him. Sirius' eyes flicker, then open. He turns his head to look at Harry, licking wetly at his cheek as he does so. 'Good morning.'

Rolling over, Sirius thumps his tail on the bed a couple of times and puts his front paws on Harry's chest to push him back down onto his back. He licks him again and then drapes his whole weight on top of Harry in a way which pretty clearly says, _go back to sleep_.

'Sirius, it's almost ten o'clock,' Harry says. 'Wake up.'

Sirius growls, the feeling rumbling through his body and into Harry's chest.

Harry nudges him. 'C'mon,' he says. 'Daylight is broken. Time to be a human. Upsie-day.'

With one more growl, Sirius blinks a grey eye irritably at Harry before transforming. The weight on Harry's chest shifts and after a moment his naked godfather is lying half on top of him, frowning.

'What is it?' he asks roughly, clearly still half-asleep.

Harry's face breaks into a wonky smile and he reaches up to run his fingers through the back of Sirius' hair. He pulls him down and kisses him. Having Sirius naked and heavy on top of him is making his cock twitch in lazy interest. He can feel Sirius stir, similarly keen, against his thigh—but to his surprise his godfather does not kiss him back and instead pulls away.

With a heavy sigh, Sirius rolls away and flops onto his back. He presses his palm heavily to his forehead, squeezing his eyes tightly closed and makes a rough noise of irritation in his throat. 'Harry,' he says. 'We probably shouldn't.'

Harry pushes himself up, heart sinking. 'We shouldn't what?' he asks, not because he doesn't know: he wants to hear Sirius say it. He doesn't get a reply. Sirius just keeps staring up at the ceiling, mouth twisted in a frown. 'Shouldn't _what_?'

'Shag?' Sirius suggests finally, sounding thoroughly reluctant.

Harry lets out a derisive snort. 'Kind of messed that up, daddy,' he says.

Scowling, Sirius rubs his temple. 'Okay,' he says. 'You're right. But that doesn't mean it's alright to keep doing it. And I've got to be responsible here—don't laugh—and, uh, boundaries. Or something.'

Harry pushes his glasses up his nose. 'You sound very convincing.'

'Thanks, I try.'

They are both quiet for a long moment, Harry sitting up and watching Sirius who is still lying on the bed a foot away, looking slightly petulant. 'So...' Harry prompts after a while, scratching his nose. 'Can I suck your dick?'

Finally Sirius shoots up, swinging his legs off the bed. 'No!' He looks over his shoulder at Harry. 'Were you even listening to me?'

'Yeah, I was.'

'Then—'

'Fine!' Harry leans forward and pushes Sirius' back to get him off the bed. 'Don't know what I expected. You never fuck the same person twice, do you? Why would I think this would be different.'

'Harry, that's not what I—' Sirius growls. He doesn't let Harry shove him off the bed, instead twisting around and grabbing his hand, pinning it to the mattress. 'I want to,' he says, with a voice of deliberate calm and steadiness. 'Merlin, I want to. But what are you expecting? I'm your godfather. You're young. You should be out dating other young people. Not messing around with someone you can never tell people you're...' He sighs. 'I should have said this last night. You're just a kid. I shouldn't have let it get this far. I'm sorry.'

Harry looks down at the blanket where his hand is trapped. He can feel heat behind his eyes. He feels angry, but he also knows that Sirius is right. 'Alright,' he mutters, knowing he sounds sullen.

Sirius lets his hand go and stands up. He bends down to find his jeans on the floor and pulls them on. 'Let's just go back to normal.'

Harry tilts his neck back to look at the ceiling, shaking his head. He exhales a laugh. 'Alright.'

'Do you want to go out and get something to eat?'

Rubbing his eyes, Harry says. 'Oh, this?'

'What?'

'Just going to channel your feelings into capitalism some more?'

' _No_ ,' Sirius shoots back, sounding genuinely offended. 'Fuck capitalism, Harry.'

Harry waves him off, shaking his head. 'Okay, bring down the system from the inside. Do what you have to do. Bring me back a pastry.' He flops back down onto his pillow and rolls over, turning his back on Sirius. 'I'm staying here.'

He frowns at the window until he hears Sirius leave downstairs, and then gets straight out of bed, pulling on his pants and nothing else and heading to the drawing room. He lies on the couch and reads for an hour or so until Sirius gets back, at which point he accepts the giant bag of freshly baked French pastries offered to him. He eats them very pointedly at Sirius, licking syrup and apricot coulis off his fingers with far more attention than required.

'You've… you've got some on your lip,' Sirius says from the other chair after a while, voice low, and watches fixedly as Harry licks his tongue slowly around his mouth before sucking his lower lip between his teeth and releasing with a _pop_.

'Did I get it?' he asks.

Sirius gets up and leaves the room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Have a drawing to go along with this one. Why not!](http://archiveofourown.org/works/11165391)


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains brief Draco/Harry, as per the tags on the work.

It isn't until an owl arrives from Mrs Weasley that Harry clicks that his twenty-first birthday is coming up in a couple of weeks. The letter says:

_Harry dear,_

_I've spoken to Ron and he tells me you haven't planned anything for your birthday. It's a big one. Twenty-one! You'll come here to the Burrow and we'll invite everyone, just like we did for Ron's. A nice outdoor lunch. Does that sound alright? Remember, you're family, and it would be great to get everyone together again. Let me know by owl if there is anyone special you want to bring._

_Hope you're well. Give my love to Sirius, and tell him to bring along that book I lent him._

_Love,  
Molly._

Harry blinks at the letter. He had completely forgotten. Not that his birthday was coming up—but that it was a milestone. Part of him forgets that wizards celebrate twenty-firsts like muggles do, given that they come of age at seventeen. But according to Sirius it is something which carried over a long time ago and is a big party birthday for everyone, even pureblood families.

He scribbles a reply to Mrs Weasley telling her that he would love to come to the Burrow for lunch, and that it will just be him and Sirius. He doesn't mind a bit of a get-together with his friends and the rest of the Weasleys, but he hopes it doesn't spiral into something bigger than that. He does add a note to Mrs Weasley "just to keep it small", but he doubts she'll pay much attention.

Harry opens his windows fully as the bird flies out, and kneels on his bed to lean on the mantle and look outside. He is a bit nervous about the suggestion that he bring _someone special_. There has been more and more nudging from his friends to get out and start seeing someone. He can't exactly say that all he wants right now is his godfather.

He rests his cheek on his hand. But then, his godfather is putting up a good effort at forcing things back into normalcy between them. Maybe he should agree to be set up on a date. That would show him.

Sighing, Harry climbs off the bed and goes upstairs. He finds Sirius in one of the spare bedrooms, stripping old water damaged wallpaper down from the walls.

'It's my birthday in a couple of weeks,' he says from the doorway. Sirius stills and turns around to look at him. Harry folds his arms over his bare chest, quirking an eyebrow at his godfather. He has taken to wandering around half-naked: it seems to be an effective tactic at fucking up Sirius' day.

'Yeah, I know,' Sirius replies.

'Mrs Weasley is throwing a party at the Burrow,' he tells him. 'She sends her love and wants that book back.'

'Good, she can have it.' Sirius flicks his wand at the wall, peeling off another strip of paper. 'Utter filth. What are housewives reading these days?'

Harry’s lips quirk.

‘What do you want for your birthday?’ Sirius asks, turning back to look pointedly at the wall as he works. Harry can see the corner of a frown etched into his face, even turned away.

‘Nothing,’ Harry says immediately. Then shrugs, rephrasing. ‘I think you _know_ what I want.’

The sentence hangs heavy between them, and Sirius doesn’t reply—just lets out a sigh.

‘Hang on,’ Harry says, after a long moment. ‘I’ll come help.’

*

It has been too long since Harry last flew. It is impossible to get on a broom anywhere near London without being seen. There are only a few places where it is really safe to go that Harry knows of, and most of them he isn't used to visiting alone. But he needs to get out of the house and into the air, clear his head.

Sirius is driving him crazy. Or he is driving himself crazy, maybe. So he sends an owl to Ron asking if he is free to go flying today, grabs his broomstick and a quaffle from the set Sirius bought him, and apparates to a closed off square of tall, thick trees. There is nothing around for miles except a winding dirt road, and the trees are high enough that, so long as they don't fly too high, no muggles driving past will see them.

Out in the warm summer sun, Harry drops his Firebolt and the quaffle onto the grass and flops onto his back while he waits for Ron. It is a pleasant day. There is a cool breeze rustling through the trees, birds are singing in the trees, clouds drifting lazily across the sky—all that stuff. He folds his arms behind his head and lets out a relieved breath. Grimmauld Place is big, but for all its rooms it's impossible to hide from Sirius, or for Sirius to hide from him. And the fact that he is burning with desire, anger and vague hurt every time he looks at his godfather means that (although they are play-acting at "normal") space is probably what they both need.

A sudden pair of overlapping cracks like gunshots alert Harry that he has company. He sits up, dusts grass off the back of his hair and grins at Ron, who has brought George along with him. They are both carrying brooms.

'Hey,' Ron calls out, adding unnecessarily: 'Is this the field you meant?'

George swats his brother on the back of the head. 'If it wasn't, he wouldn't be here, you idiot,' he says. 'Harry! How's it going?'

Standing, Harry lets himself be pulled into a quick, one-armed, hair-ruffling hug by George. 'Not bad.' He flattens his hair. 'Er, how are you? Aren't you meant to be at your shop?'

George waves him off. 'Nah, Fred's got it. He had a date night with Ange without me last night, I'm going flying today. It's a new thing we're trying.' He looks Harry up and down and whistles. 'Look at you! What's all this, then?' He plucks at Harry's soft, navy blue pullover. 'I heard you were gay now, but I didn't realise that meant you'd started dressing yourself.'

Ron rolls his eyes. 'Yeah, Harry's cool now,' he tells George. 'According to Hermione. Sirius dresses him.'

Harry scowls and knocks George's hand away. 'If he dressed me, I'd look like the front of a Ramones LP,' he says. 'And I'm not gay now, I was gay before. Also, the two things have nothing to do with each other.'

'Yeah, I hear enough of that from Ginny,' George replies. He pokes Harry's head to the side. 'And the tattoo! Wow, Harry. Hermione's not kidding, you really are cool now.'

Harry can't help but grin, shrugging. 'Maybe I was cool before too,' he says.

'You definitely weren't, mate.' Ron picks up the quaffle off the ground. 'C'mon, enough of this. Let's get in the air.'

With only three of them, they can't really play a proper game of anything, but they set up an arbitrary goal between a couple of trees and take turns guarding it as the other two see how many points they can land. It is a relief to be flying. Harry can feel a tension in his chest slowly easing as he throws and catches the quaffle, soaring and dipping and diving in the pleasant, breezy air.

They fly for what feels like hours, shouting and laughing, and when they finally land Harry feels better than he has since—well, since lying in bed with Sirius on top of him and their mixed spunk all over his body. His whole body aches pleasantly from the exercise and the ground feels too solid beneath him from the freedom of being on a broom.

The three of them drop to the ground to catch their breaths, and after a while of chatting, George says: 'Oy, Harry, I nearly forgot. Mum wants us to ask you if you're seeing anyone so she can invite them to your birthday.'

Harry groans, rubbing his hand over his face. 'Yeah, she hinted at that in her owl as well,' he says. 'I'm not.'

'Great!' George says, so brightly that it makes Harry suspicious. 'She'll be glad to hear it.'

Narrowing his eyes, Harry asks slowly, 'Why?'

'No reason,' Ron says quickly. 'You know mum, she's just...'

'Why do people _care_ if I'm dating or not?' Harry grumbles.

'Well, because you're single, eligible and cool?' George suggests. 'And extremely famous?'

'Pbbffftt,' Harry says.

'You are out hooking up with fit boys though, right?' George asks.

Harry scrubs a hand over his face. 'No,' he replies wearily.

'No?' Ron asks, surprised. 'Not at all?'

'Er, Ron.' Harry looks at him incredulously. 'When the hell have I ever just gone out and pulled with anyone, ever?'

'Yeah, but…' Ron's neck goes pink. They've never been great at talking about this sort of stuff with each other, he and Ron—their friendship is more based on comfortably _not_ -talking, whenever possible. 'I mean… you've at least shagged a guy, right?'

That tension that has been loosening in Harry's stomach slowly starts to coil tight again. 'Yeah,' he admits. 'I have.'

'Just the one?' George asks.

'Just the one.'

George lets out a low whistle. 'Poor effort, Harry.' He frowns and apparently manages to read Harry's expression correctly. 'Wait. It was a guy you _liked_ , wasn't it?'

Harry frowns. 'He was alright.'

'But it's not still going?'

'Apparently not.'

Ron's eyebrows are deeply furrowed. 'Who was it?'

'Don't worry about it,' Harry says. 'Er. You don't know him.'

'Bullshit,' Ron says. 'I know everyone you know.'

'Merlin's pants, what self-respecting wizard on earth dumps _Harry Potter_?' George adds, shaking his head.

'People are allowed to dump me,' Harry says. 'And besides, he… didn't. We weren't really, uh, together or anything like that.' He lets out a sigh. 'Can we not talk about it?'

'Was the shagging good at least?' Ron asks.

'Yes.'

'Well, you haven't tried with other guys,' George points out. 'You should give that a go. Maybe it'll be even better. Broader horizons, all that.'

Harry's stomach squirms. 'Yeah,' he agrees lightly. Really, George is right. He has no idea if it was good because it was Sirius, or just because he was an inexperienced virgin. 'Couldn't hurt.'

Ron thumps him on the back. 'Sorry 'bout that, mate,' he says. 'Who knows, you might meet someone soon.'

After that, they chat about other things for a while and toss the quaffle between them in the air a few more times before packing up and heading off. Harry apparates home and, to his surprise, actually feels a little bitter for having talked—however vaguely—to Ron and George about it. He finds Sirius in the kitchen as soon as he gets inside. He knows his hair looks windswept, cheeks flushed from flying.

Sirius turns in his chair to look at him as he steps inside. Harry grins and ruffles his own hair with his hand, messing it up even more. 'Afternoon,' he says brightly.

'Good morning?' Sirius asks, voice low.

'Oh yeah, great. Flew a bit, talked about boys, the usual,' Harry replies, wandering over to the fridge. 'What's there to eat?'

*

'I need to go to Gringotts,' Sirius says from Harry's bedroom door a few days later.

Harry glances up, flipping his book closed. 'Now?'

'Soon as you're ready,' Sirius replies.

They tend not to go to Diagon Alley alone. It tends to be pretty overwhelming for each of them, and it's easier to ignore the cameras, people asking for autographs, occasional dirty looks and general level of whispering and pointing if they are there together.

Harry sits up and stretches, before reaching over his head to tug off his t-shirt. 'Hold on, I'll just get changed,' he says, one eye on Sirius. He stands up slowly, cricking his neck and rubbing his shoulder. 'What's it like out there?'

Sirius' lashes are lowered and his gaze seems to be stuck somewhere around Harry's belly button. He clears his throat. 'Chilly.'

Harry wanders over to his dresser, shifting through clothes. 'Enjoying the view, there?' he asks, pulling out an open-necked t-shirt, but not putting it on. He turns to lean against the dresser and quirk an eyebrow at Sirius.

'Just… get dressed for the bank, Harry,' his godfather replies dryly—but his eyes are still travelling over Harry's body with obvious interest.

'You sure?' Harry teases, and grins when Sirius rolls his eyes and turns away, leaving the room.

'I'll meet you downstairs!' he calls over his shoulder. Harry snorts and tugs the shirt over his head, reaching for his leather jacket as well. At first it was pretty satisfying to tease Sirius like this, but at first he was pretty sure that Sirius was going to break any moment. It's been a full week though since they fucked; and despite very, very obviously wanting to go again, Sirius has held out so far. Maybe he can hold out indefinitely. He hasn't even bought Harry any expensive presents, which says to Harry that he's really reining himself back.

Harry steps into his shoes and ties them up. Oh well. If Sirius wants to be like this, Harry can deal with it. He stands up and heads downstairs where Sirius is waiting for him at the door, holding it open.

Diagon Alley, when they arrive, is bustling and busy with people. The sudden hush as they pass seems to flow with them, moving through the crowd like an echo as people suddenly pause in their sentences and nudge one another to point and murmur. Several camera flashes go off with loud clicks and Harry rolls his eyes. He takes a step closer to Sirius.

'You'd think they'd lose interest,' he mutters, shoving his hands in his pockets.

'In you? Never,' he says, just as Harry hears someone nearby gasp in fright, _'It's Sirius Black!'_

The crowds thin around Gringotts, and the whispering eases off: only to be replaced by a small swarm of reporters running forward as they make it onto the marble front steps of the bank, camera lights flashing.

'Mr Potter!' a reporter calls out. 'Any word for the Daily Prophet on when you're taking up your role as Head Auror?'

Harry glances over his shoulder. 'Not any time soon,' he says loudly and irritably to the gathered group. Sirius nudges him pointedly, hushing him under his breath.

'Is there a reason why you are abandoning the wizarding world by not taking up your post?' another voice calls out.

'Because he's twenty, you idiots,' Sirius calls out.

'And Sirius Black—' a reporter calls out, but Sirius wrenches the heavy front doors open before any questions can be asked and pushes Harry inside.

'Stupid fucking...' he mutters under his breath. 'God, I hate coming here.'

'Why _are_ we even here?' Inside the atrium of Gringotts it is blessedly quiet. There are wizards and goblins milling around, doing business, but no one is gawping at them. Harry glances around.

Tugging out his wallet, Sirius pulls out a couple of muggle credit cards, flashing them at Harry. 'Bureaucracy,' he explains. 'They don't like me paying these off by converting to muggle money and want to set up direct payments. Wait here. I've got to go sort this out.'

Harry shakes his head, leaning against a nearby wall and watching as his godfather saunters over to a free teller and starts talking. He knows goblins—this is going to take a while. They don't really approve of any methods of transferring wizarding and muggle money, and charge exorbitant rates on most methods.

Sighing, Harry looks around and fiddles with the zipper on his jacket pocket until suddenly he hears a familiar, drawling voice from directly behind him.

'If it isn't _Potter_. Quite the commotion outside, I should have realised you were in here.'

Breathing out through his nose, Harry slowly turns around so that he is face to face with cold grey eyes and a sneer. 'Malfoy,' he greets, expecting the other boy to immediately launch into a calm barrage of mild, veiled insults. He hasn't seen Draco Malfoy for a couple of years, at least—but the last few times they talked have been icily civil.

To his surprise, however, Malfoy opens his mouth and then seems to go speechless when Harry looks at him. His eyes drift down to Harry's neck, where the top of his stag tattoo is peeking out from his shirt, antlers curving up behind his ear. Then his gaze drops lower, scanning Harry's leather jacket, deep v-neck and down to his tight black jeans and leather boots.

Quietly, Malfoy breathes: 'Holy shit.'

'What was that?' Harry asks.

Spots of bright colour erupt on Malfoy's cheeks like blooming flowers. 'I mean—Potter. You, I—you look terrible.'

Harry raises an eyebrow. 'Oh no,' he says. 'So do you.'

It is absolutely not true. Malfoy looks more or less the same as ever: haughty and pale, slender and several inches taller than Harry. His hair is still annoyingly gorgeous, platinum blond and long at the front so that it falls into his eyes, sheared short on the sides. In fact, the only way he really looks any different than when Harry last saw him is that his pointy features have settled and matured into something sharply handsome.

Malfoy flicks his hair out of his face and breathes out a laugh. 'Merlin,' he says, sounding speechless again. 'What was I saying? Something about your fawning, adoring crowds out there.'

Harry leans in as though to whisper a secret. 'Was it catching?' he murmurs in fake concern.

The pink flushes on Malfoy's cheeks darken a shade. 'I wasn't,' he splutters. 'You just—took me by surprise.'

Harry nods consolingly. 'It's okay,' he says. 'Do you have something you're doing here, Malfoy? Or did you just show up to insult, stammer and blush at me?'

'Yes,' Malfoy replies. 'Yes, I'm going to the bank. Obviously. All the tellers are busy. What are _you_ doing here?'

'Waiting for Sirius,' Harry says, jerking his head over in the direction of his godfather, who is still arguing animatedly with a goblin at the front desk.

They look at each other for a long moment, both out of things to say. Harry doesn't want to start on small talk with Malfoy as though they're friends: but he is saved the trouble of trying as a sudden steely look crosses Malfoy's flushing face and he says, 'You know what? Fuck it. What’s there to lose?'

Harry blinks. 'Er, what?'

'Potter,' Malfoy says directly. 'Do you want to go get a drink?'

Harry's jaw drops open. 'Are you asking me out?' he blurts incredulously.

Malfoy holds his jaw high proudly, looking down at Harry and folding his arms. 'Yes,' he replies.

It is a surreal moment and Harry cannot help the grin that slides over his face. He adjusts his posture so that he's leaning slightly closer to Malfoy, looking him up and down curiously. To his surprise, rather than take on any defensive or sneering expression, Malfoy just smiles back at him. It is one of the most genuine expressions he has ever seen on that pale, pointed face.

Just as Harry opens his mouth to reply, however, he feels someone appear at his shoulder and glances behind him to see Sirius standing there, looking at Malfoy with an unpleasant expression.

'What are you doing here?' he asks Malfoy with distaste.

To Harry's surprise, Malfoy's back straightens and he turns to face Sirius, hands behind his back and shoulders stiff. 'Black,' he greets politely. 'I was wondering if I could take your godson out on a date?'

Harry feels his cheeks go hot. 'Malfoy, don't—'

Sirius is glaring at Malfoy as though he is a squished flobberworm on the bottom of his shoe. Malfoy, impressively, has not broken eye contact or dropped his posture; although he is looking a little wary. 'Drop the act, kid,' Sirius says to him. 'You don't have to ask me shit. If Harry wants to go out with you, that's his call. Harry?'

Looking between them, Harry hesitates for a moment. The dark look in Sirius' eyes is a little alarming, and he clearly expects Harry to say no—but hey, Harry wouldn't be considering this at all if Sirius hadn't been so insistent himself that he go out and date wizards his own age. And screw it. Malfoy is fit. Malfoy is asking. Malfoy has, by all accounts, not been an absolute prick lately. In fact, as far as Harry can tell Malfoy has done little the past few years except stay resolutely out of the public eye.

'Uh, yeah,' Harry says to Malfoy. 'Yeah, sure. I'll let you buy me a drink.' He takes a step toward him. 'Right now?'

Malfoy inclines his head, smiling. 'Why not? My business can wait until tomorrow.' He nods to Sirius once more and holds out an arm to lead Harry away. 'Good evening.'

'See you later,' Harry says to Sirius, with a little wave. He winks. 'Don't wait up.'

Sirius' expression is stormy as he watches them go. Harry can see his hands balled into fists in the pockets of his jacket. Turning away, Harry leans flirtatiously close to Malfoy as they walk. 'Where are we going?' he asks, voice low, enjoying the unfamiliar pleased smirk he gets from Malfoy in return.

*

Harry stumbles through the front door to Grimmauld Place some time in the middle of the night, staggering as he crosses the threshold and catches himself on the wall to hold himself upright. 'Sirius!' he calls out into the house, just before he bends over and tries to fight back the retching feeling building in his throat. He can't—he lasts only a couple of seconds before he tastes slime in the back of his throat and pukes large, fat, writhing slugs all over the hallway carpet.

He hears the thump of footsteps on the stairs, hurrying down. 'Harry, is that—SHIT!'

Through watering eyes, Harry looks up to see Sirius rushing towards him. He was clearly in bed until a second ago, his hair messed up and undressed except for a dressing gown. He drops down next to Harry on the floor, pulling out his wand and conjuring a bucket just in time for Harry to retch again. This time the slugs hit the cool metal with several ringing _thunks_.

Harry holds up a finger, spitting out one more small slug before rasping, 'You should see the other guy.'

Sirius barks out a laugh, vanishing the slugs on the carpet and then the ones in the bucket. 'So, how did your date go?'

'Surprisingly well, actually,' Harry replies, crawling across the floor so that he is leaning against the wall, bucket resting in his lap. He knows the spell isn't over—he has a few more rounds left in him at least. He tilts his head back against the wall and mutters, 'Stupid first year hex. Come on, Malfoy.'

'What did you get him with?' Sirius asks, coming to sit beside Harry. He wraps his dressing gown tighter around himself.

Harry smirks. 'A split lip,' he says. 'Stupid prick.'

'So, when you say it went well...?'

'Well, look at the time,' Harry says, before leaning over the bucket again and retching several times before vomiting up a handful of slugs again. The slimy sensation stays in his throat, adding to the nausea, and he keeps retching until his tonsils and eyes are burning. Tears are sliding down his cheeks. Finally, he comes up again and wipes his face with the palm of his hand. ' _Ugh_. Er, yeah. I mean, we went several hours _before_ fighting each other. That's pretty good. For me and Malfoy.' He presses his hand to his mouth, chest contracting as another wave of nausea threatens to take him. 'Even got a snog in.'

'Eugh,' Sirius says.

'Before the slugs, obviously.'

'Still eugh.' Sirius sighs, and rubs Harry's back in slow circles as he leans over the bucket again. 'What happened?' he asks after the wave of vomiting has passed.

'Oh, you know. He was Malfoy.' Harry rolls his eyes. 'Started going on about how good it is that I live in this house with you, how we're going back to proper pureblood values and I'm rising above my upbringing, or something. Then he snidely asked me if I still associate “with that werewolf”, and it escalated from there.' Pulling his head out of the bucket, Harry glances to look at Sirius to find him grinning.

'Who threw the first hit?'

'I did.'

Sirius' grin widens. 'Proud of you,' he says warmly.

Harry's back curls and he pukes into the bucket again. The slugs are getting smaller, easier to choke up. As he vomits, he feels Sirius' fingers stroke through his hair.

'I can't say I'm not pleased it went down like this,' Sirius says quietly. 'I mean, I'd prefer if you weren't vomiting slugs. But, otherwise...'

Harry groans into the bucket. Reaches for his wand and vanishes the slugs he's already puked up.

'I don't like the idea of you kissing him,' Sirius says.

'It was more like making out,' Harry replies. 'Extensively. In a dark corner of the bar.'

' _Harry_.'

'Maybe that's why it took so long to go south,' he continues musingly. 'His tongue can't say stupid prattish things when it's halfway down my throat.'

'Did you just do it to make me jealous?' Sirius asks.

'No. I did it because he was asking.' Harry coughs, but brings nothing up. He wipes his mouth. 'And because I know him, and I know he doesn't give a shit about who I am and what I've done. And because he has nice hair. _And_ because I wanted to make you jealous.'

'Well, it worked.'

Harry tilts his head back against the wall, smiling wryly. 'So you'll shag me again?'

'I didn't say—'

'I mean, not right now, obviously.' Harry coughs. He can feel a small slug tickling the back of his throat, and he slams his fist to his chest a few times to try to dislodge it, retching. ‘Unless this is working for you,’ he rasps, before finally managing to spit up the slug. It hits the bucket with a wet noise.

Sirius pulls a face. ‘It’s not,’ he says, before sighing and dropping his head down onto Harry’s shoulder, slouching against the wall. ‘This is the most unattractive thing I’ve seen in my life. Don’t vomit on me, I had enough of that when you were a baby.’

But he stays there with Harry until the effects of the hex have passed, stroking his hair, rubbing his back—and doing so much longer than is really necessary, long after Harry has finished puking and has just decided he doesn’t really want to move, ever again.

*

‘You made it into the paper,’ Sirius says, throwing Harry the Prophet as he sits down to breakfast. His voice is light and he’s smirking slightly—but there is a jealous look in his eyes which makes Harry shiver.

He unfolds the newspaper. Sirius has left it on page 5, where Harry and Draco’s date takes up a full page. ‘Oh, I guess I’m not front page news anymore,’ Harry observes. ‘That’s good at least.’

The picture and story are less good. There is a large photo which takes up almost half the page, taken fairly early in the night. It shows Harry and Malfoy sitting at a table together and leaning in close to one another to talk. The version of Harry on the page is all but fluttering his eyelashes, biting the tip of his thumb as he listens, laughing, to whatever Malfoy is saying. It’s no trickery of the camera, Harry remembers that well enough. He had had a couple of drinks and Malfoy had been perfectly charming at that point, and Harry had been thinking that maybe, just maybe, getting into bed with someone else was exactly what he needed.

There is another, smaller photo, further down the page, of them necking in the dark corner booth of the pub. Harry scans the article. It’s speculative gossip nonsense, and spends a great deal of time just rambling about Harry’s prospects for Head Auror, as usual. Then it goes into an enormous amount of detail on Malfoy’s family and wealth, and the great deal of charity work he’s been doing recently, without once mentioning any word about being an ex-death eater. Harry reads to the bottom. Not one single word about Harry punching Malfoy in the face and getting hexed in return.

‘That little shit-fucking-ferrety-cock-stain!’ Harry snaps, throwing the paper down onto the table. This seems to cheer Sirius up, because he barks out a laugh and leans back in his chair, grinning. Harry points to the paper. ‘He paid them off! He paid them to make him look good and like he’s actually dating me.’

‘Well, of course he did,’ says Sirius. ‘He doesn’t need the bad press of getting punched by Harry Potter.’

‘He won’t be able to avoid it if I punch him enough times,’ Harry replies, tempted to roll his sleeves up and go find Malfoy right now. ‘They got photos of the fight, too. I saw the cameras. That prick!’

Sirius takes a satisfied sip of his coffee. ‘Discretion is key, Harry.’

‘You can get stuffed,’ Harry replies. ‘You’ve never been discreet in your life.’

'You should learn to turn into a dog. Really helps with hiding from public attention.'

Harry throws himself down into a chair and flicks his wand, charming a cup of tea to make itself and float over to him. 'Now everyone is going to think I'm going out with Malfoy,' he sighs. 'Maybe I should owl Luna. Her dad could run a counter story...' He scrubs his hand over his eyes, pushing his glasses out of the way. 'No, that's petty.'

'See how it pans out,' Sirius suggests. 'Malfoy will shut it down himself soon enough, since he can't capitalise on it in the long term.'

'Yeah...' Harry's tea settles itself down in front of him, just as an own taps at the small window above the kitchen. Harry sees Sirius flick his wand and open the window. Harry recognises the bird as one of Hermione's Ministry ones, and he groans as he opens the letter.

It just says:

_'Malfoy, Harry? Really?'_

Harry shows the note to Sirius. 'I'm gonna get a lot of these, aren't I?' he asks.

Sirius just nods. Harry levels a long, pointed glare at him. This is his godfather's fault, after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you (for some reason) want to know more about what's going on with Draco in this fic, _Bloodsport_ from [the series page](http://archiveofourown.org/series/661424) goes into detail on that. But it's not a particularly pleasant fic, so please read all the tags and warnings if you choose to check it out. Main warnings include: **underage, dub-con, age/power imbalance**.
> 
> If you (for some reason) want an entire novel length sequel about Malfoy post-this fic, check out Werewolf Discourse, OR: Nicolas Pereyra's Coffee Shop For Dipshit Cryptids, which is just a coffee shop fic for Draco (who is a werewolf) where he falls in love with a muggle cryptozoologist. It's better than it sounds, I swear.


	11. Chapter 11

Alright, so. Hooking up with other wizards isn't going to do anyone any good. Harry has learned this lesson, he decides. He is lying on his bed, staring up at the ceiling. His door is closed, his shirt is off, and his hand is toying slowly with the top of his jeans. Arousal has been teasing at him all morning, since helping Sirius work on the spare bedroom upstairs—where he was smeared with flecks of paint and primer, shirt open halfway down his chest—to potion brewing in the bathroom on his floor. The steady, even work of stirring his brewing potion sixty times clockwise, sixty times counter-clockwise again and again had his mind drifting until his thoughts were filled with nothing but counting and vague ideas of kissing his way down his godfather's chest upstairs, unbuttoning the last few fastenings of his shirt, dropping to his knees and…

Harry hums, palming his half-hard cock through his jeans. If Sirius won't do this with him, well. He'll just have to do it himself.

Unzipping his jeans, Harry sits up enough to pull them off. He doesn't touch himself immediately. He lies back down and closes his eyes, letting his hand explore over his own body, touch light and teasing. His cock is slowly hardening, twitching against his thigh, but he ignores it. His fingers ghost up his neck, reminding him of the feeling of Sirius kissing him there, sucking marks into his jaw, stubble grazing at his skin. Harry slides his fingers over his lips and moans. Sinking further into memories, he thinks about taking Sirius' cock in his mouth—heavy, thick, precum sliding on his tongue—and pushes two fingers between his lips. He sucks on his fingers, swirling his tongue around them, imagining and wishing they were his godfather's.

Harry takes his own cock in hand and begins to stroke: slow, loose slides of his fist up and down. He takes it slow, moaning wantonly around his fingers when it feels good, letting his hips arch off the bed. He doesn't care if Sirius can hear him. Hell, he wants Sirius to hear him. He hopes he is standing right on the other side of the bloody door, listening to every single sound and he hopes it is torturing him.

The thought flickers through his brain and makes Harry's eyes open suddenly. Sirius probably can't hear him. The house is big, and if he's upstairs, no matter how loud Harry is moaning it is unlikely Sirius is listening. But Harry knows what is lying next to his bed. It's been sitting there for weeks; the polaroid camera that Sirius gave him.

Oh, this is a bad idea, Harry thinks. But he is already smiling, taking his fingers out of his mouth and reaching for his wand next to him. It's going to be easier to do this with magic, he thinks, and flicks his wand so that the camera rises up into the air and turns itself on. He's going to be guessing an angle. He floats the camera until he feels like he has it in a good shot and arranges his body in a position that he hopes looks appealing and not just awkward, his hand still stroking himself steadily.

Biting his lip in concentration, Harry fires off the camera and floats it back down, blowing on the picture as it develops. He immediately feels embarrassed when he sees it, his cheeks flushing warm. But, to his surprise, he also likes it: he thinks he looks _good_ , sprawled out on his bed, bathed in late afternoon light, making eye contact with the camera and (slightly blurrily) touching himself.

Summoning up his Gryffindor nerve, Harry picks up his wand again and charms the photograph to fold itself into a little plane and opens the door enough to send it on his way. 'Go find Sirius,' he tells it and—with a flutter—the dick pic soars out of the room.

Anticipatory nerves curl in his stomach, and he waits quietly, listening closely for any reaction from Sirius upstairs. He keeps touching himself, just stroking a thumb and forefinger under the head of his cock, and nibbles at his thumbnail.

He does not have to wait long. After a minute or so, he hears a soft _thump_ upstairs and then Sirius' voice shouting from somewhere on the next level: 'HARRY.'

Harry grins. He can hear movement, soft swearing and then—the sound of footsteps on the stairs.

'Hullo,' he says as Sirius' face appears in the partially closed doorway. Then slowly, the door swings open fully. Sirius leans on the frame and stares at Harry, his expression completely dumbfounded. His eyes darken and trace down the shape of Harry's body and his tongue darts out to dampen his lips.

'What are you doing?' he asks, voice gravelly.

'Er, what does it look like?'

Sirius folds his arms. He is still covered in little flecks of paint. He is holding the photograph between two fingers in one hand. 'And this?' he asks, gesturing with it.

Harry blinks innocently, reaching up behind him to move his pillow, shifting to be more comfortable. 'You don't like it?' He closes his hand around his prick and squeezes, moaning in the back of his throat.

Sirius' eyes somehow go even darker. Making a point to settle himself more comfortably against the door frame, he rakes his eyes over Harry and says, 'Well? Go on then.'

Harry slides his free hand up over his chest, thumb grazing his nipple. Sirius' eyes on him are making every touch and every shiver feel deliciously acute. It is warm in the room and between the heat and the arousal building in his body he can feel sweat prickling at his skin. He swirls his thumb over the head of his cock where a bead of precum is slowly building and—locking eyes with his godfather—brings the digit to his mouth to lick it off. 'And you're just going to stand there, are you?'

'Yes.' Sirius chews thoughtfully at the fingernail on his ring finger. 'What else am I meant to do? If I go anywhere else in the house, you'll just send me photos, apparently.'

'I mean, you could join me,' Harry points out.

Sirius shakes his head. 'No,' he says, sounding thoroughly inconvenienced.

'Why not?'

'…I'm being responsible.'

Laughing, Harry says, 'Okay.' He wriggles, spreading his legs and bending his knees. He strokes his cock again, looking down his own body consideringly. 'Sure, I can just put on a show. How's the angle?'

Sirius clears his throat. 'I...'

'Bad?' Harry shifts. 'Oh yeah, you can't see anything if my legs up like that.' He drops his knee, giving Sirius a full view of his hand moving on his prick. 'Better?'

With a frustrated noise in the back of his throat, Sirius says, 'Yeah.'

Rolling his hips up into his strokes, Harry closes his eyes and tilts his neck back. He gives himself over to pleasure for a while, determined to play it up. He doesn't try to stifle any noises—he probably exaggerates them a little. He moans wantonly and lets himself gasp and pant as his chest rises and falls heavily. But when he starts to feel himself getting close, he quickly takes his hand off his cock and flutters his eyes open to look at Sirius.

His godfather has not moved. He is still as a statue, framed in the light from the hall behind him, eyes fixed on Harry, pupils blown wide. Harry can see the thick bulge in his jeans which shows the effect he is having on him, along with the high flush on his cheeks. He is biting down on his lip—so hard that it has gone white.

'Hey, daddy,' Harry murmurs, breathless. This startles Sirius, and he jerks his head to meet Harry's eyes. 'What was that spell you did, with the lube?'

Sirius licks his lips. 'Hold out your hand,' he croaks. Coughs in the back of his throat. 'You don't keep any of your own, sweet thing?'

Harry smirks, but shakes his head. 'I don't usually...' He lifts up his left hand, palm out toward Sirius. 'Can I have some?'

'Anything you want,' Sirius replies, pulling his wand out of his jeans. He says an incantation and Harry's hand is suddenly slippery with slick. There is a lot of it: pooling in his palm and dripping over his fingers, and a good amount splashes onto the bedsheets before Harry can move his hand to his body. There, it drips onto his stomach instead, equally unhelpful. With his dry hand, he rubs it into his skin, pulling a face.

'That's too much.'

'Better than too little,' Sirius points out. 'What, are you worried about making a mess?'

'No.' Harry frowns, looking at his hand. He has hardly ever done this before—certainly not properly, with real lube and an audience. Spreading his legs further apart, he reaches down. He slips his fingers between his legs, slick oil sliding immediately into the crack of his arse, cool and a little startling. He shivers. 'Ohh.'

'Know what you're doing, baby?' Sirius asks from the doorway.

Harry shoots him a glare. 'I think I can work it out,' he says. 'Unless you're volunteering to help.'

'Sounds like you've got it covered.'

Ignoring him, Harry lets his eyes flutter closed again and presses his fingers down exploratorily. He runs his fingertip over the rim of his hole, just circling gently for a few moments and letting the lube on his fingers smooth the way, wet and slippery. He exhales a breath and forces himself to relax, pushing his finger forward, sliding it inside. 'You're a liar,' he says to his godfather, opening his eyes again. He only has half a finger inside himself, but he takes his time adjusting to the feeling and slowly pushing it deeper.

'I'm a what?'

'Anything I want,' Harry pants, bringing his other hand back to his cock and stroking slowly again. The pleasure is deeper now, a warmth spreading through the whole of his body—almost startling. 'You know what I want.'

'Do I?' Sirius asks, a slight teasing smile dancing around his mouth. 'I'm not a legilimens. What is it?'

' _Daddy_.' Harry rocks back onto his finger and, carefully, slides a second one in alongside it. It is a stretch, but he adjusts quickly, fingers still dripping with slick.

'Take it slow,' Sirius says quickly. 'Do you need more lube?'

Harry nods. He probably doesn't, really, but it couldn't hurt. He takes his fingers out and holds out his hand again. Sirius flicks his wand and his hand is washed in slippery liquid again. Harry pours some over his cock, easing the way of his loose, easy strokes. Then he presses two fingers back inside himself, crooking them until he feels a sudden spark of pleasure which makes him gasp.

'There,' he moans aloud. 'Oh, _fuck_ , right there.'

'Are you close?' Sirius asks.

'Oh yeah.'

'Keep yourself there,' he says, dropping his voice low. 'Right on the edge. I want to see you.'

Harry keens, rocking his hips down onto his hand. He keeps the fingers stroking his cock loose, letting go every couple of seconds as he approaches the edge. He knows he looks wild, half covered in slippery lube from the stomach down, hips rolling, legs spread and feet planted on the bed, toes curling in the sheets. His breaths are coming hard and fast, chest rising and falling. His hair is sticking to his forehead with sweat.

His fingers in his arse are rubbing over that spot inside himself with every press, pleasure shooting up his spine and the only reason he hasn't shot off all over his chest yet is the fact that he is barely even caressing his cock anymore, just stroking with his forefinger and thumb every few seconds, legs trembling.

'I want you inside me,' he gasps out to Sirius.

'Not now,' Sirius replies, dropping his hand down to squeeze and rearrange himself through his jeans. Then he folds his arms again, fists clenching. 'You ready to come?'

Harry doesn't reply immediately, instead just letting his eyes flutter closed for several seconds as he keeps himself right on the edge, words escaping him. His stomach is clenching and his legs are trembling with effort. He can't help the noises which are falling from his mouth—desperate moans, soft grunts and damp, panting breaths.

He has to open his eyes. He wants to see Sirius. Forcing his eyes open, he fixes his blurring gaze on his godfather and manages to grit out, 'Yeah, please.'

'Go on, baby boy,' Sirius says.

Harry needs nothing else. He keeps stroking his cock, keeps curling his fingers inside him and, with a cry, feels his orgasm break over him like a wave. The intensity shocks him. His body goes taut, the groan that escapes his throat completely unfamiliar and unbidden. As he shoots off over his fingers he is surprised by the force of it—it lands on his chest, some even splattering up onto his neck and mouth—and seems to last for an almost absurdly long time. Long enough that he is panting for breath, body _aching_ with pleasure.

Finally, he slumps onto the bed, boneless, and drops his hand from his cock. His fingers tremble as he pulls them out of himself and his arse clenches against the feeling of suddenly being empty. He feels wrung out, almost hollow. But warmth washes over his whole body, deep satisfaction curling inside him.

'Uhhhnnnn,' he manages rolling onto his stomach and burying his face into his pillow. He is grinning. He can see Sirius out of the corner of his eye, still standing in the doorway. 'C'mere,' he says, patting the bed next to him.

Sirius hesitates. The look on his face is etched with enough desire that Harry's heart only flutters faster, pulse racing. He feels stupid, doing this. He feels kind of like a bastard. But if Sirius really didn't want to, he did not have to stay and watch. He didn't have to help. He didn't have to talk Harry through it and call him sweet names in a voice which dropped to almost a purr.

With a couple of slow steps forward, Sirius crosses the room and sits down on the bed next to Harry. He unfolds his arms and leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. His head drops down between his shoulders so that his hair falls in front of his face. Harry shifts, trying to catch sight of his expression.

'You're gonna kill me,' Sirius murmurs, but there is a dry laugh in his voice. 'Merlin, I'm useless when it comes to… I can't believe I'm doing this again.'

Sitting up, Harry turns to face Sirius, sitting cross legged. Pointlessly, he grabs a pillow from behind him and drops it across his lap to cover himself. Both his hands are still kinda sticky from lube and jizz and being inside his arse, but Harry wipes one on the sheet before reaching out and brushing Sirius' his out of his face so that he can look at him properly. 'I'm useless too,' he says.

There is something in Sirius' voice when he says 'doing this again'; something that tells Harry he doesn't get the full weight behind it—and that same something also tells Harry he shouldn't ask. Not now, anyway.

'If you'll let me,' Harry continues (half making it a joke), 'I'd really like to uselessly suck you off while you stroke my hair and call me a good boy.'

Sirius turns his head to look at him properly. His head tilts curiously, eyes locked on Harry's. His hand comes up to stroke a thumb across Harry's cheek, brushing away—oops, maybe brushing away a bit of stray jizz. 'Why?'

'Because I want to,' Harry says plainly. 'I mean, I want something like that most of the time, you know?'

'What else do you want?'

Harry smiles. 'Whatever it is, would you give it to me?'

The moment hangs between them, quiet for a while. Sirius keeps stroking his thumb in slow, rough lines across Harry's cheek. It is not necessarily an intimate touch: Sirius once held his face like this when he was thirteen, after all, and told him just how much he looked like his father. But Harry sighs and leans into it, rubbing his cheek into Sirius' warm palm.

Finally, Sirius breathes out and says, 'I think we both know the answer to that.' And he leans forward and presses his lips to Harry's hungrily. From there, it is both easy and restrained. Sirius takes the pillow from Harry's lap so that Harry is naked (and bare and a little filthy), while he stays dressed. But he lets Harry kiss down his neck and unbutton his shirt. Flecks of paint and plaster fall on the bed, catch in Harry's hair.

The shirt doesn't come off, but when it is open all the way Harry spends far too long nuzzling his face in Sirius' chest hair and then lower—until he has his mouth grazing across the thick denim of Sirius' jeans, his cheek rubbing the zipper, his nose bumping the hard line of Sirius' cock under the heavy fabric.

Harry does suck him off a bit uselessly. He is still boneless, loose and easy, so he basically just mouths up and down Sirius' prick and wanks him off while tonguing the head until Sirius comes, messily, all over his face. Sirius' fingers thread through his hair and stroke through the tangle of curls until Harry is moaning just from that. Sirius pants out _please_ and _fuck_ and _I never_ until words fail him and he just curls forward and groans deeply in his chest.

Afterwards, Harry doesn't want Sirius leaving or saying anything like _'This was a mistake'_ , so he pushes him onto his back, climbs on top of him and kisses him stupidly. Any time Sirius opens his mouth to speak, Harry silences him with a quick press of lips or a lot of tongue, until Sirius gives up and wraps his arms around Harry's body, rolls him over and kisses him back, both laughing into each other's mouths.

*

They don't talk about it. Eventually they get up and Harry cleans his bed with a spell and then his body with a long bath. Sirius goes out and picks up a takeaway from an Indian place nearby. They eat together and wash up, and Sirius follows Harry upstairs when he goes to check on his simmering potion. He watches as Harry adds the final ingredients and stirs the potion until it is ready to quietly simmer overnight. They talk through all this, but not about what they are doing.

When it gets late, Harry stretches and prods the flame under his cauldron/bathtub with his wand until it lowers to the barest flicker.

'I'm going to bed,' he announces, following Sirius out into the hallway. He says it a little bit like an invitation, hands in his pockets and a smile dancing on his lips. Stepping forward, Sirius backs Harry against the wall with his body and lowers his gaze so that his eyes flicker over Harry's face, searching. Whatever he is looking for, he seems to find—because he smiles widely, sliding his hand up to the back of Harry's neck and kissing him.

Harry hums into the kiss, but before he can move or deepen it Sirius pulls back and presses a quick peck to Harry's forehead. 'I'll let you get to bed,' he says. 'Night.'

'Are you...' Harry swallows. 'Tomorrow, will you...' _Stop this again?_ Harry doesn't quite manage to get the words out. He doesn't want to hear an answer he doesn't like.

Sirius just smiles. 'Tomorrow,' he says, as though thinking hard and musing on the question. 'Well, tomorrow is the day before your birthday. I was thinking we'd spend it on the town. I've already got your main present, obviously. But if you want to find some other things—'

Harry feels himself flush. 'I don't need anything,' he says quickly. He is worse at accepting elaborate gifts on his birthday than at any other time. It feels too focused on him, and reminds him of Dudley screaming at his parents year after year for more, more, more.

Sirius knows this and he takes a few steps back toward the stairs, tongue between his teeth as he grins. 'We can just see a movie,' he adds. 'We can even sit at the back in the dark like teenagers, if you want.'

It is as close to a promise as Harry thinks he is going to get right now. 'Yeah,' he says. 'Something like, something like that sounds great.'

'Night, Harry.' Sirius has one foot on the first step upstairs.

Words burn in Harry's mouth, itching to get out. All of them are too loaded, too much to say. _Can we keep doing this? What is going to happen when we have to stop? Can we keep it a secret? Can we tell everyone? Is it wrong? Is it wrong that I don't care?_

'Goodnight,' he replies, slips into his bedroom and closes the door behind him. For now, at least, it'll do.

*

It is almost midnight the following day and Harry is just thinking about going to bed, knowing tomorrow will be busy at the Weasleys, when Sirius appears at the drawing room doorway and says, 'You're twenty-one in five minutes.'

Harry flicks his wand to turn off the wireless. He stretches on the couch, arching his hips up and reaching his arms up behind his head. 'Guess so,' he replies. He twists around, sitting up and grinning at Sirius. Sirius, who woke him up this morning by vanishing the sheets off his bed at seven in the morning and tricked Harry into not shouting at him by climbing onto the bed and kissing him into the mattress.

Sirius, who has not—however—touched him at all since then. They did not end up going to a movie, or going shopping. Instead, Remus owled in the morning saying he would like to meet them for lunch, and the day was spent in strangely forced normalcy as they tried much too hard to act like nothing had happened while in front of their friend. Sirius, in particular, seemed edgy and tense most of the afternoon, causing Remus to continually give him curious, perceptive looks out of the corner of his eye. 

Nothing was said. When Remus slipped away from the table for a few moments, Harry kicked his godfather and muttered, ‘Relax.’ 

Sirius said, ominously: ‘Moony always knows. Trust a werewolf.’

Even when they got home, Sirius stayed tense and disappeared upstairs for several hours. But he is here now, the uneasiness of the day seeming to have melted off him like butter. 

'I was thinking,' he says now, scratching at his stubble, 'that there isn't going to be a whole lot of time tomorrow to give you your birthday present. So I thought you might like it now, instead.'

Harry quirks his eyebrow. 'What is it? How long is it going to take to give it to me?'

'Depends what you want to do with it,' Sirius answers, shrugging. 'But, could take a while. If you're not too tired.'

'Er...' Running a hand through his hair, Harry looks Sirius up and down. 'Is this a come on?'

'How about you come get your present, and you can decide for yourself.'

Harry stands up. His godfather is still lingering at the door, fully dressed. Actually, he's _really_ fully dressed. He is wearing boots and a jacket, front door keys in his hand as if they are going outside. Glancing down at his own body, Harry frowns at his socked feet. 'Should I put shoes on?'

'Yes,' Sirius replies. 'You probably don't need a coat or anything.'

Harry summons his trainers and steps into them, not bothering with laces. He takes a few steps toward his godfather and looks up at him, trying to read the expression on his face. There is a smile dancing around Sirius' lips, playful. His eyes are twinkling. He holds out his hand for Harry to take.

Harry does, and lets himself be led downstairs. 'Where are we going?' he asks as they approach the door. 'Sirius, it's late.'

But Sirius doesn't answer. At the entrance he turns around, grinning from cheek to cheek and says, 'Eyes closed, Harry.' He has one hand on the doorknob and one hand in Harry's, fingers laced together.

Harry studies him with suspicion then lets his eyes flutter closed. He is rewarded with a surprise brush of Sirius' lips to his, the graze of stubble against his skin. He gasps. 'I _knew_ this was a come on,' he says, and Sirius barks out a laugh.

'No, keep your eyes closed. That wasn't the present.'

Harry huffs and shifts on the spot, but does not open his eyes. He can hear the door creaking open and shivers when he feels the cool breeze from outside on the bare skin of his arms. Sirius gives him a little tug, guiding him outside. Harry reaches out, fumbling around with his free hand to find the railing next to the steps. Curiosity and excitement is starting to overtake surprise, and nerves are bubbling up inside him.

Sirius lets go of his hand. 'One more moment,' he says, and moves around to stand behind Harry and place his hands over Harry's glasses. 'Ready?'

Harry opens his eyes so that he can only see the palms of Sirius' hands and a small amount of light filtering in between his fingers from the streetlight. He nods.

The moment that Sirius pulls his hands away from Harry's eyes and he sees what is waiting for him down in the street, Harry freezes. A shiver runs through him, almost the same as the first time he unwrapped his Firebolt for the first time and he sucks in a breath that trails off into something like a moan.

His very first thought is of Dudley and how jealous he would be if he saw this. That image triggers movement from Harry and he half bends over, laughter bubbling up inside of him. Heart pounding in his chest, he rushes forward and nearly trips on his unlaced shoelaces as he bolts down the steps.

'Watch it!' Sirius shouts after him, but Harry ignores the call and skids to a halt in front of the gleaming silver Aston Martin. It is gorgeous—a classic. All rounded lines and almost art deco finishing, graceful and polished and _cool_. One of Dudley's many toys which had ended up broken growing up was a model Aston Martin. It had looked almost exactly like this, and Dudley had ended up smashing it replicating a scene from James Bond by throwing it out the window.

Harry is still laughing. He doesn't feel like he can stop, his hands coming up to cover his mouth as he circles the car. 'Sirius,' he finally manages once he has looked it from every angle and turns back to face his godfather. 'Daddy, you're not serious.'

Sirius just throws him a set of keys. They glint in the light from the street lamp overhead, and Harry catches them as if they were a snitch. 'Do you want to go for a drive?'

If Harry was tired before, that feeling has evaporated. His skin is jittering with excitement and nothing, nothing at this moment could stop him getting into the car. It is late enough that even here in London the roads are mostly empty. Fingers shaking, Harry unlocks the car door and leans across to pop the lock on the passenger side for Sirius.

The leather seats are immaculate. The dashboard is gleaming, the steering wheel lacquered wood. There have clearly been updates: there is a CD player installed which definitely wasn't there in the original, and there are a few buttons which Harry suspects Sirius has added himself which seem to be vaguely magical. He'll work out what they do later. The last time he was in a flying car it didn't end up that great, and he's not risking this one.

Door opening, Sirius slides into the other seat. He pushes his hair back off his face, looking just about as honestly excited as Harry feels. 'Well? Take her away,' he says.

Harry lets out a shaky breath. 'I love you,' he murmurs, partially directed to Sirius and partially directed to the car. He turns the key in the ignition and moans again as the car comes to life around him. 'I can't believe it. I can't believe—how could you...?'

'Happy birthday, Harry,' Sirius laughs.

He's right—it's past midnight now. Harry is twenty-one. He is twenty-one and he has an Aston Martin and he is in love with his godfather. All these thoughts hit him like a brick through the windscreen. He shifts the car into gear, still trembling all over and pulls out onto the dead quiet road. He glances at Sirius out of the corner of his eye. He is watching him drive with a smile that is soft and happy and warm all at once. It is a smile that Sirius doesn't use all that much: usually his smiles are either wry and half suppressed or huge things which crack across his face, full of laughter. But this is a quieter smile, one that Harry suspects not many people other than him ever see.

The car runs like a dream. Harry enjoys driving almost as much as he enjoys flying. Especially now, like this—in the middle of the night when the streets are empty and he is driving the most beautiful creature he has ever sat inside. He rolls down the windows so that the wind whips through his hair and then it almost just like being on a broom: wonderful, free, fierce joy. He can't stop laughing, happy and wild, and beside him Sirius is laughing too. He has his own window down and is leaning half out, like a dog. He whoops loudly into the quiet streets.

This is incredible. Blood pounds in Harry’s veins. At first he weaves through the streets of Islington and up towards Holloway, but he gets onto the A1 and just drives fast and straight until the city begins to fade away and everything becomes houses and schools and then those begin to spread apart and everything is just wide stretches of road and parks and paddocks. 

Sirius turns on the radio almost as soon as they get going, and nothing feels quite like driving full pelt down the motorway, singing along to the stereo together and laughing. It is a clear night, stars dusting the sky, and Harry feels energised and happy--happy and _free_. 

They drive for what has to be at least an hour. At first Harry sticks to the road, where they can drive fast and straight, but slowly the thrill starts to wind down and he takes a turn off somewhere well outside of London so that they are driving slower through quiet country streets lined with thick trees which curl over the road, blocking out the stars. Here, the only light comes from the headlights of the car, illuminating long, beautiful shadows and occasional glimpses of rolling, endless stretches of farmland. If they are passing houses they are situated well off the roads, down long winding driveways. For a while they drive through the quiet roads, not passing any other cars.

Sirius is still singing along with the music; although Harry can tell that, like himself, Sirius' high of adrenaline is running into something quieter—on account of the fact that he's leaning into Harry's space now and is replacing half the words of the songs with dirty phrases or random observations of things he is seeing.

Suddenly, Harry turns into a narrow dirt street off the already deserted road. Sirius glances across at him, raising his eyebrows questioningly. 'Off the beaten path?'

Harry hums. 'Just want to find somewhere quiet for a bit,' he replies. He is in luck. The street is lined on each side with crumbling, low rock fences and the further they drive the more the ground becomes scattered with leaves and sheltered by overhanging trees. After a short way, it turns a corner into a dead end which is just a patch of dirt signalling the end of the road and a small clearing of damp grass. Harry can just glimpse moonlight dancing off a river a few yards away and he thinks that this must be occasionally used as a fishing spot: as far as he can see, there is nothing else around of any interest at all. He parks the car on the grass and kills the engine. The music cuts out, and suddenly everything falls silent.

Harry slumps back in his car seat and turns his head to grin at Sirius, letting out a happy sigh. 'Thank you,' he says. 'For the car. I honestly don't even know how to say—'

Sirius shakes his head. 'I'm glad you like her,' he says.

Leaning across the gap between their seats, Harry pulls Sirius into a deep kiss. There's not really any other way of expressing how happy he is in this moment. He feels like he has just climbed off his broom after catching a winning snitch. His whole body is thrumming and the car feels solid and still beneath him—grounding. Sirius is kissing him back, but Harry pulls away after only a moment and reaches back to open his door. 'Let's stretch our legs,' he suggests.

Outside, the air is still brisk but not so cool that Harry is really _cold_ , even wearing only a light t-shirt and his jeans. The grass is soft under his feet, damp from a light drizzle earlier and glistening in the shimmering moonlight. He rolls his shoulders and takes a few steps away from the car into the clearing, hearing the other door thump closed and sensing Sirius coming up behind him.

Harry takes a deep breath. He feels so good right now that he almost does not want to say anything, in case he says something wrong. But it is a perfect, quiet spot on a perfect, quiet night and if there is a time to talk about his feelings (as much as he would really rather never do so), now feels like the right time to do it.

He turns around to face Sirius and licks his lips, grinning at him. Sirius is only a few steps away, his thumbs in his jeans pockets. He is walking forward, gaze fixed at Harry's lips—but before he can kiss him, Harry holds up a hand and presses it to Sirius' chest to hold him back. 'Wait,' he tells him. 'Can I say something?'

A flash of apprehension flickers across Sirius' face, but he quickly schools it into attentiveness. 'Of course,' he says and takes a careful step away. 'You don't have to ask.'

'I, er, have to...' Harry trails off, scratching his neck. 'I don't know how to, shit, speak about things. But I know, uh, I know that either I say something now—and I'm going to say it wrong, just a heads up—or I'm just going to, you know, not say anything until I yell at someone and then that would be bad. And I don't want it to be bad, because it's _not_ bad. It's good.'

Sirius' eyebrows draw together. 'Harry?' 

'And honestly, you're the only person I can ever, er, speak to. I mean, Ron and Hermione too, but they usually needle it out of me. But then, it's hard because it is _about you_ , and I don't quite know how to… do that. But the point is, I think I run my mouth and I push for things without, you know, talking about them or asking for them or, uh, confirming anything. And that is probably, not great.' He sighs, shoving his hands deep in his pockets and looks down at the ground, frowning. 'I'm fucking this up already.'

Taking a step closer, Sirius reaches out to place his hand on Harry's shoulder. 'You want to stop what we've been doing?'

Harry makes a sound of frustration in his throat. 'No!' he says quickly. 'The opposite of that. That's what I'm saying. But I haven't really said anything to you, not properly. So I'm saying it now.' He looks up at Sirius and reaches up to flatten his hair, self-consciously. '"What we've been doing",' he repeats. 'And "messing around" and, I dunno, just _this_. I'm sick of that, all the being vague and talking about it as if it isn't a thing. It's a thing to me, Sirius.' Harry grunts in frustration again. 'See? That's just as bad. A _thing_.'

'Harry,' Sirius says quietly. 'I need to understand what you are saying, okay, because the way it sounds to me, I— I just, I need to know. Please.'

The _please_ breaks Harry. It seems to crack on Sirius' tongue, and he has no idea what that means for how Sirius is going to respond, but he hopes. Clearing his throat, he says: 'When we were driving here, it hit me that I'm— I'm in love, or something, with you. And I want you. To myself. Pretty much all the time.'

Sirius sucks in a sharp breath. He drops his head so that his forehead is pressed to Harry's and squeezes his eyes tightly closed. He lets out a soft, shaky laugh. It gusts warmly over Harry's face.

'Sorry,' Harry says automatically.

Sirius can't seem to find his voice. He brings both hands up to Harry's face, thumbs brushing over his cheekbones and fingers stroking through his hair. His nose bumps Harry's. 'Don't be sorry,' he finally murmurs. There is laughter in his voice. Tilting his head, he catches Harry's lips in a kiss that Harry arches up into, pulse pounding in his ears. 'You can have me,' Sirius says. 'You can _always_ have me.'

It surprises Harry from there how much Sirius melts into his touch. It is a change, like a barrier crumbling. When Harry pushes his body forward and wraps his arms around his godfather's neck, Sirius seems to go loose, letting himself be pushed back until he is bumping against the front of the car. He moans into Harry's mouth, shifts his legs apart when Harry steps between them. He parts his lips to Harry's kisses and tilts his head back when Harry mouths at his jaw.

At first, Harry just wants to make out with Sirius against an Aston Martin, because that seems aspirational. They are technically in public, and even though it is summer the night is getting distinctly damp and chilly. He wants to show him that he means his stammered words and he wants—he doesn't need Sirius to say it back, but he wants to feel it, if he can. And he can. Sirius is saying it with his body, with soft moans and hands pulling Harry close and with, finally, a soft _'please, I need...'_ that Harry hasn't heard before.

And then, he thinks that he's going to fuck Sirius on an Aston Martin—public be damned, weather be damned.

'What, what do you want?' Harry asks into the crook behind Sirius' ear. His godfather shifts his legs further apart and pushes himself up so that he is half sitting on the hood of the car. Harry pulls back enough to meet his eyes and smirk at him before dropping to his knees on the grass. Damp seeps in through the denim, undoubtedly leaving deep wet patches down his legs, but that's fine.

He reaches forward to fiddle with the button of Sirius' jeans and looks up. Sirius has his lips parted and as he unzips his trousers, Harry leans in to nuzzle at the line of his cock through his jeans. He feels Sirius' prick jump—but the expression on his godfather's face is thoughtful, head cocked.

'Not that,' Sirius says. 'Right now.' He drops his hands to join Harry's, where they are pulling down his jeans. He pushes too, until his trousers and pants fall to pool at his ankles, then grabs Harry's hand and pulls him back up.

Harry makes a short noise of objection. 'I was going to—' he starts, but Sirius cuts him off with a kiss. It is a clumsy kiss. Very clumsy, because Sirius is trying to step out of his jeans as he does so, kicking them over his ankles and getting stuck. Harry pulls away and looks down. The trousers are caught on Sirius' shoes, halfway off and—with a grunt of frustration—Sirius bends down to pull them roughly over his boots and throw them a short distance away so that he is naked from the waist down.

He looks kind of ridiculous, still wearing his jacket and shirt, erection poking up towards Harry and legs bare down to his polished leather boots. Harry covers his mouth with the back of his hand and snickers.

'Are you laughing at me?' Sirius asks, but his face is split in a toothy grin as he straightens back up and leans against the car invitingly.

'No,' Harry lies. 'I mean. Got to keep your shoes on. It's a bit muddy. Very practical.'

'Exactly,' Sirius agrees. Then his grin falls away into a darker look. 'I want you to fuck me.'

Harry's stomach flips. 'Right here?'

Sirius nods.

The thought is a bit much. It isn't something he has done before—fucked or been fucked, technically, in this sense—and although he wants to (and god, he wants to, his body responding to Sirius' words like a jolt of electricity) he has no idea what he is doing.

He says as much, and Sirius says, fairly reassuringly: 'Wing it.' Then he smiles again. 'Don't worry, I've got it. We'll be fine. All you have to do is stick it in.'

He pulls Harry close and kisses him again, while taking his hand and conjuring lube directly onto his fingers with a murmur.

Sirius keeps to his word. He guides Harry easily, leading his hand down between his own raised legs and nudging his fingers forward saying, 'You know how to do this bit.' 

Harry does, although he has never done it to someone else. He keeps his gaze fixed on Sirius' face as he carefully opens him up, reading his reactions carefully to make sure he is not doing it wrong, to make sure he doesn't hurt him.

'Fuck, Harry,' Sirius moans, relaxing around Harry's fingers and pushing down onto his hand. 'You can go more than that.'

Harry pauses, pulls his fingers back to rub slickly over Sirius' hole before pushing them inside again, deeper this time. Sirius' dark eyelashes flutter shut and he lets out a moan.

'This okay?' Harry asks, crooking his fingers and leaning forward to brush his lips over Sirius' jaw. He keeps watching him, searching the reactions in his face until he finds the spot inside him that has his mouth falling open and a full-body tremor shaking through him.

Sirius laughs, breathlessly—a touch hysterically. 'It's perfect,' he replies. He has opened his eyes again, looking at Harry with a wide-eyed expression which he can't seem to hold. As Harry moves his fingers inside him, he tears his eyes away and tilts his head back, groaning his way through a handful of curses. ' _Harder_ ,' he finally says. And, 'More.'

Arousal is burning through Harry as he watches his godfather come apart on top of the car under Harry's fingers. When Harry slides his fingers out and carefully adds another one, Sirius brings his own hand down again to guide his movements, pushing Harry's hand in deeper, faster than Harry would have on his own. The reaction is beautiful: a groan, a shiver and a loosening of limbs so that he is wantonly grinding down against Harry's palm.

'Thats—That's good,' Sirius gasps eventually and doesn't even give Harry enough time to properly remove his hand before he is trying to twist and turn over on the hood of the car. 'Want you in me.'

Harry fumbles quickly with the front of his jeans. He is barely even noticing the cool air on his bare arms anymore. He feels hot all over with desire and his cock throbs as he finally frees it. He feels almost painfully aroused from ignoring his own body as he fingered Sirius. He moans as he wraps his slick hand around his prick and spreads lube down the shaft. He steps closer to Sirius, cock rubbing up against the dip of Sirius' arse. He leans forward, pressing his lips to Sirius' shoulder. 'Not sure how long I'll be...' he murmurs.

'Doesn't matter.' Sirius pushes back against him. 'Harry, I just need to feel you.'

Again, Harry moves slowly as he presses into Sirius. Again, Sirius pushes back against him faster, taking him deep. Harry has to squeeze his eyes shut and slam his hands down onto the hood of the car to stop himself hurtling toward orgasm straight away. ' _Daddy_ , stop it,' he grits out, voice shaking.

Beneath him, Sirius vibrates with laughter. 'Sorry,' he gets out. But still he squirms and rolls himself back on Harry's dick.

Harry moves one hand to press down on the small of his godfather's back, holding him still. 'Just let me—' he mutters, taking a few deep, steadying breaths. After a few moments he begins to adjust to the feeling and gets his body under control. Fluttering his eyes open, he looks down at Sirius beneath him and nearly loses it again. He is holding himself up on his elbows, looking back at Harry over his shoulder through loose waves of dark hair. His cheeks are flushed, his lips bitten red, his grey eyes almost blown black.

' _Move_ ,' Sirius prompts.

Carefully, Harry rolls his hips. He pulls back slowly, pleasure curling through him, and thrusts forward again. He does it inch by inch, agonisingly slowly, fingers curling against the little heart-shaped patch of hair at the base of Sirius' spine. Beneath him Sirius lets out a long, deep groan and drops his head down between his shoulders.

Harry reaches up to take Sirius' hand in his own, intertwining their fingers, and curls his body forward so that they are pressed together and he can nudge Sirius' hair out of the way to mouth at his neck. Gradually he picks up his pace, snapping his hips faster so that all he can hear is skin slapping against skin and Sirius' moans and his own harsh breathing.

'Look at me,' he murmurs. Sirius turns his head to look back over his shoulder. He is a bit glassy eyed and he is grinning, his hair a wild mess. Harry catches his lips in a kiss, changing the angle of his thrusts slightly. He feels the reaction in Sirius' body; the violent jerk, the deep groan and the sudden tightening of his fingers around Harry's.

Harry hesitates, but Sirius just pushes back against him pointedly. ' _There_ ,' he grunts. 'Fuck. Again.'

Harry thrusts again, pulling back far enough to be able to watch Sirius' expression carefully. He can feel the concentration etched into his own face as he reads Sirius, watching with every thrust and adjusting the angle slightly each time until—there. Another full body tremor and a desperate moan that feels almost pulled out of him. 'God,' Sirius gets out between wanton noises. 'Yes.'

Harry smiles, satisfied, and leans forward to kiss Sirius' temple. He moves his hand on Sirius' back, dropping it down between Sirius' body and the hood of the car to wrap around his godfather's cock. ' _Oh,_ ' Sirius groans, thrusting up into Harry's hand. He has dropped his head down again, shoulders shaking as he breathes harshly.

Harry can tell he is getting close, and it is a relief because his own orgasm is building inside him, faster and faster. He wants Sirius to come first. He wants to feel him come apart underneath him, around him. He wants to hear it.

'Fuck, fu-uuck,' Sirius groans, voice breaking halfway through the word. He keeps his head down, pushing into Harry's hand and back against his cock alternately, sweat gleaming on the back of his thighs. 'Please, fuck, I love—' He cuts himself off in a deep groan, but Harry finishes it.

'I love you,' he pants against the leather of Sirius' jacket, into the curve of his neck.

'Fuck,' Sirius says again. ' _James_.'


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter references the prequel [The Incident, or, Everything That Happened Before Everything That Happened](http://archiveofourown.org/works/10632585?view_full_work=true) (Five things the Marauders refer to as 'The Incident' and one which well and truly deserves the title) quite heavily. 
> 
> If you haven't read it, I think it contextualizes things a bit! 
> 
> Oh, and there are also a few blink-and-you'll-miss-them references to [Stag](http://archiveofourown.org/works/9822833).

Harry freezes. Sirius jerks once into his hand, as if objecting to the sudden loss of movement before seeming to catch up to what he just said and going absolutely still.

'Harry,' Sirius corrects quickly, voice cracking. 'Harry, I mean, Harry. Shit. Shit. _Fuck_.'

'It's okay,' Harry says, but Sirius is already twisting away, trying to push him off.

'No, I—' Emotion breaks through Sirius' voice and he sounds almost close to tears. He reaches behind him and pushes at Harry's chest. 'Harry, I'm sorry. You shouldn't— _Shit_ , I've fucked this up, I'm so—messed up—sorry.'

Harry straightens slightly but doesn't pull away, his dick still inside Sirius, his hand still loose around his cock. 'It was just a mistake,' he says. 'Right?'

'Yeah, I wasn't—Harry, get _off_.'

Hesitantly, Harry pulls out and takes a step back, holding up his jeans with one hand. Sirius doesn't really move, still bent over the car. He just buries his face in his hands and lets out a muffled noise of frustrated anger.

'I don't mind,' Harry says quietly.

'Harry, don't,' Sirius replies, still into his hands.

'Really, I don't.' Harry edges closer, resting on the hood of the car next to Sirius and brushing his hair away from the face. He pokes the back of one of his hands. 'Hey, look at me.'

It takes a moment. Sirius lets out another long, pained groan but then, with a sigh, he drops his hand and glances up at Harry. 'What can you possibly—'

'It's not the first time you've called me James,' Harry points out, smiling lopsidedly. 'I know I look like him. I really don't… I mean, it's not a bad thing, is it? You liked my dad, you like me. I get it.'

'No, you don't.' Sirius pushes himself up, turning to face Harry. He reaches out as though to caress his face, then stops himself and drops his hand. Harry won't stand for that. Immediately he grabs Sirius' hand and brings it up to his own cheek, glaring hard at Sirius until a small smile appears on his lips and he strokes Harry's cheekbone with his thumb. 'This isn't like, like when I call you James and ask you to throw me a beer.'

'Sure it is.'

'Harry, I loved your dad.'

Harry rolls his eyes. 'Sirius, I know.'

'No, Harry. I _loved_ your dad.'

'I _know_.' Harry lets his gaze slip away from Sirius' and looks out over the empty clearing with a sigh. Sirius drops his hand from his face. It's the first time Sirius has ever _said_ it, but the words are out of Harry's mouth before he even realises how true they are. 'It's okay.'

'It's not.'

'But it is.' Harry cannot help the warm feeling that unfurls inside him whenever anyone—but Sirius in particular—calls him by his father's name. He cannot describe it either, or put into words why it is fine. Maybe it shouldn’t feel this way. Maybe he should be upset, offended, or something. But he never has been. Knowing that Sirius sees his father in him has always just felt like a validation. He knows that it is weird and this gut reaction isn't the full extent of his feelings on the matter, but for now…it's enough. For him, anyway. 'We can talk more about it later,' Harry says. 'But I promise I… don't mind. I wouldn't even care if it happened again. I know you're here with me.'

Sirius is staring at him, openly baffled. But he says, 'I am.' His voice is a little raspy and the words seem to take him by surprise, like he was going to say something else. 'Harry, I'm right here with you.'

'Nothing has changed,' Harry insists. 'Not in my book.’

Reaching out, Harry brushes Sirius hair behind his ear and quirks a wonky smile. Trying to read Sirius’ expression, he searches his face intently.

Sirius looks at him for a long time, brows furrowed and a frown tugging at his lips. 'Shit, Harry,' he says finally.

‘We can go home, if you want. But I’d be happy to…’ Harry trails off. His eyes drop slightly, and he pushes Sirius’ hair back further, catching sight of a series of marks on Sirius’ neck that he’s never seen before. Curious, he asks, ‘What’s this?’

‘Hm?’ Sirius seems surprised, reaching up his fingers to brush the back of his own neck where Harry’s fingers are lingering. There are four scars dotted around Sirius’ spine. Harry can only see them because he has pushed his godfather’s hair away and the moonlight is falling on them, bright and clear, but they look simultaneously fresh and old. They aren’t healed over, exactly, but they are not bleeding and they have clearly been there a long time, normally hidden by Sirius’ long hair. ‘Oh,’ Sirius mutters, laughing wryly under his breath. ‘That was Moony. Back in school.’

Harry startles. ‘These look like—was he a wolf when he did this?’

‘Yeah, it was a whole incident.’ Sirius’ brow furrows. ‘One of many.’

Tracing the scars with his fingertips, Harry says, ‘Then how come you’re not…?’

‘I was a dog at the time. You’ve seen him—us. He can scratch and bite me when he’s transformed and it’s not… well. Ask him about it. He wrote a paper. Never published, of course, but…’ Sirius trails off, letting out a heavy breath. On a laugh, he says: ‘Your dad lost his shit when it happened. He was galloping around like an idiot.’

‘Yeah?’

‘Yeah, the lot of us spent the next four weeks convinced I was going to turn. The next full moon I nearly got eaten by Remus just because I was enough of an idiot to lock myself in a room with a werewolf because I thought I was one too.’ He grimaces. ‘After that, me and Prongs had the only, I think the only real fight we ever had. Because I was too ready to become a werewolf with Moony, or something.’

‘You fought over that?’ Harry asks, surprised.

‘Yep. It was the end of the world. A huge teenage blowout. Shouting, crying, hexing anyone who got in our way. The works. We got over it, obviously. It was very dramatic. I think there was a ten minute hug in the middle of the common room after.’

Harry drops his hand from where he is still mapping Sirius’ scars to take his hand instead, lacing their fingers together. ‘It’s okay that you want him back,’ he says. ‘So do I. You want your best friend, I want my dad.’

Sirius eyes go wide and he seems to wince.

‘I mean…’ Harry starts, realising how that sounds. But he feels something weighted settle inside himself, like steel, and continues. ‘Actually, no. I mean that. We both lost too much time with him. We can’t get him back, but my dad would want us to do what—whatever makes us happy. Don’t you reckon?’

Sirius seems to take a long time, thinking, to reply. But when he does, he grins lopsidedly, ‘He was never opposed to, to carrying on stupid things, I suppose. Even when…’

‘I don’t want it to stop,’ Harry says.

Sirius kisses him, fierce and breathless. Harry gasps into his mouth, tightening his grip on Sirius hand—but then it’s over and Sirius is pressing their foreheads firmly together. ‘Me neither,’ he says. ‘Let’s not. Stop.’

'It _is_ my birthday,' Harry reminds him, and that makes Sirius smile. ‘You have to say that.’

'I guess it is.' Sirius kisses him again, deep enough that Harry moans, arching into his touch. His body is still wound up, reactive and responsive, despite the change in mood. 'You're something, sweetheart.'

Harry grins and bumps his nose against Sirius'. 'Yeah?'

'Well, birthday boy. What do you want?'

Harry pulls back and bites his lip, looking away as though bashful. 'Well, daddy,' he murmurs, and turns back to whisper a stream of things into Sirius' ear that has him flushing.

'Fuck,' Sirius replies, with sincere conviction.

Harry strokes him several times and says, 'Bet my dad never said that.'

Sirius falls back onto the car, arm thrown over his face—but laughs in a way that is half appalled sobs and lets Harry push inside him again. This time they fuck face to face and Harry doesn't let Sirius look away from him as they clutch at each other and kiss and gasp into each other's mouths and finally come, tangled under the moonlight and Sirius cries, ' _Harry!_ ' into the quiet night air.

*

The drive home is quiet and subdued. They don't put music on, and they are both worn and fucked out so they don't really have the energy to talk. It is extremely late—or very early, depending on your perspective—and Harry is very aware that they both have to be up in a few hours to go visit the Weasleys for his birthday.

Sirius closes his eyes in the passenger seat and drifts off as Harry speeds down the motorway. He has one leg bent, pulled up onto the seat, and his jeans are a bit wrecked from lying in the mud. The light from the moon and the road lights catches on his features every few seconds and Harry half watches him fondly, hardly paying attention to the empty road. He knows he isn't thinking things through. This isn't something he can tell people about, after all. Falling for your godfather is frowned upon. And Harry knows people expect things of him. Dating, settling down, starting a family.

But for now, all the can think about is how long he can possibly go _not_ thinking about those things. He doesn't want to. He just wants Sirius.

When they make it home, Harry parks and leans over to nudge Sirius awake. The soft, slightly disoriented smile he gets makes his heart stutter.

'Shit, I'm old,' Sirius groans, rubbing a hand over his face. 'Did I fall asleep in the car?'

'You were drooling,' Harry confirms, climbing out his door. 'We're home.'

But he knows that if it had been Sirius driving, he would have drifted off himself. His whole body feels wrung out and exhausted. They both yawn as they make it into the hall and Harry is half tempted to apparate up the stairs to his room instead of climb them—he probably would if he wasn't concerned about splinching himself in this state.

At Harry's bedroom door, Sirius pauses. It feels a little bit like the end of a date as though he is dropping him home. He leans in and kisses Harry, once. 'See you in the morning,' he murmurs. 'Bright and early.'

Harry shakes his head. 'Nah, come sleep in here.' He glances at the stairs. 'You don't want to climb another flight, do you?'

It is a weak excuse, but it doesn't need to not be. Sirius just breathes out a laugh and lets himself be guided into Harry's room and stripped off: properly this time. When they are both naked they fall onto the bed, Harry rolling over until he is next to the wall to make room for his godfather.

'I'm exhausted,' he says, setting an alarm spell with a lazy flick of his wand. 'And we have to get up way too soon.'

'Yeah,' Sirius agrees. But although they should really, really sleep, Harry finds himself pressing his naked body to Sirius' and kissing him for way too long before they finally both melt into the mattress and one another and drift into a deep, heavy sleep.

*

They apparate to the Burrow at about mid morning, to find the house already bustling with activity. If he is honest, Harry is still half-asleep, blinking in the bright summer sunlight as Ron spots him from the kitchen window and shouts out 'Oy! Harry's here!' to the room at large.

Instead of being pulled into a hug or wished happy birthday, the first thing Ron does as he dashes outside is grab Harry by the front of his shirt and pull him away to the side of the house.

'Hi, oh—' Harry starts, stumbling as he is dragged away. With a baffled glance at Sirius, he follows Ron quickly, nearly tripping on a gnome, and finds himself pushed into a quiet corner behind the kitchen wall out of earshot of anyone else.

Ron pokes him in the chest. Hard. 'Malfoy,' he says, and pokes him again. 'Malfoy, Harry.'

'What?' Harry blinks, and then catches up. A laugh bubbles up inside him. 'Oh yeah, that.' For a split moment there, being dragged away by the shirtfront he had thought that _somehow_ Ron had caught on about him and Sirius. He had completely forgotten about that mess last week with Malfoy. 'Like I said to Hermione, the papers left out the bit where I nearly broke his nose.'

'And he made you puke slugs, yeah, yeah,' Ron says impatiently. 'I don't care about that.' He pokes Harry again.

Harry swats his hand away. 'Ow, stop that.'

' _Was he the guy, Harry?_ ' Ron hisses.

'Oh. _Oh_.' That's right, he had told Ron and George that there had been someone, hadn't he? Of course they would assume… 'Fuck, no. No, that date with Malfoy was a one-time disaster. And we didn't, I mean, we never—'

Ron lets out a deep, relieved breath. 'Oh, thank Merlin.' He wipes his brow with the back of his hand. 'Harry, I was worried. Mum was asking if we needed to invite him to this.' Catching Harry's alarmed look, Ron quickly adds: 'Don't worry, we didn't. I mean, you said the date went badly, but if you were hung up on him… I mean, we didn't want Malfoy in the family, you know? We would accept you no matter what, obviously— but still. Merlin, mate. You gave me a scare.'

Harry clears his throat. 'You didn't… say anything to anyone, right?' (Hermione, he thinks, not Hermione.) 'About that guy I was uh, you know.'

'Nah.' Ron shrugs. 'Didn't seem like anyone's business. Didn't even tell Hermione. Thought she'd just needle you about it, and you don't need that.'

Relief washes over Harry. It hadn't occurred to him at the time, but if anyone would put together from what he told Ron that Harry had hooked up with Sirius, it would be Hermione, given what she already knows. And he's not ready to face that. 'Great,' he says. 'Thanks.'

Cocking his head, Ron peers at Harry's neck, eyes narrowed. 'Hey, what's that?' he asks, pointing to a spot just below his ear.

'Uh, my tattoo?'

'No, there.' Ron pokes him again, this time on a small patch of his neck which twinges as though slightly bruised. Harry's stomach drops as he remembers Sirius in bed last night, kissing down his neck and sucking a spot just below his jaw. He had no idea it had left a mark. 'Is that a love-bite?'

'Er, uh, no.' Harry rubs his hand over his neck. 'No, tattoos bruise for a while afterwards. It's normal.'

'Oh, okay.' After a pause, Ron grins and finally pulls him into a tight hug. 'Happy birthday!' he says, ruffling Harry's hair before letting him go. 'Come on, crisis averted, let's get back to the house. People are here. Fleur and Bill just got in a few minutes before you arrived, and Luna's been here for ages. Neville might be lost, but he's coming, and so are Seamus and Dean. And the others. We kept it small.'

Harry laughs. 'Yeah, sounds like it,' he replies, strolling back around the house with Ron. He can hear voices carrying out of the kitchen and see the long tables set up in the back garden for lunch. The garden is as overgrown as ever and it feels good to be out here on such a nice day, like coming to a second home.

'There he is!' Mr Weasley calls as Harry wipes his shoes on the mat outside the kitchen and steps through the door into the overcrowded room. Around the table, it is mostly just a sea of red. All the Weasleys are packed in, including Percy, and Charlie and Ginny who must have both portkeyed in internationally.

Sitting beside Ginny is a woman Harry has never seen before who he realises must be Leonora, the girl she's been dating. Just looking at her kind of feels like being punched in the stomach. She is taller than everyone else at the table and absolutely strapped with muscle, her bare arms toned and thick. Her hair is dark, rich brown and falls halfway down her back and her smiling face is strong and handsome.

Sirius is leaning against the wall holding a beer. He quirks his eyebrow as Harry enters the room. Harry subtly shakes his head at him before waving to the room at large. 'Er, hullo,' he says, before being pulled into another tight, bushy-haired hug from Hermione.

The following twenty minutes or so are really nothing but hugs, shoulder punches, hand shakes (primarily from Percy) and general birthday wishes—but eventually Harry manages to sit down at the table next to Ron and summon himself a beer. Mrs Weasley is bustling around the stove and cooking and has not had much time to move across the room and greet Harry, but she calls a cheerful greeting out over her shoulder to him.

'We really should move outside soon,' she announces to the room at large. 'It's getting much too crowded in here.'

'No idea what you're talking about, mum,' George says, slightly muffled, from where he is wedged in between Fred and Angelina, his arms pinned tightly to his sides.

'I would like zat,' Fleur's voice floats down from a few seats away from Harry. He leans forward to look for her, catching slight of her silvery blond hair on the other side of Arthur on his left and, in her arms, a very young baby. 'Victoire ees not liking all zis noise at all. Eet is quite overwhelming for her.'

'Oh!' Harry exclaims. 'I haven't met Victoire!'

Fleur turns to beam at him and stands up gracefully, cradling the baby to her chest. She is only a few months old, born while Harry was in his most intense period at the end of auror training. 'Come outside, 'Arry,' she says. 'If you would like to 'old 'er.'

Harry stands up keenly and follows Fleur out through the narrow kitchen door. His movement seems to trigger a general uprising from the table as people begin to mill in the direction of the garden. Harry knows that many people follow Fleur as keenly as he just did with nothing but a flash of her smile, and the dopey grin on his face must look like he's been caught by her part-veela charm: but he's just very keen to hold the baby.

Out in the sun, she turns around on the grass and gently passes Victoire into Harry's arms, guiding him in holding her carefully, supporting her head. 'I'm sorry I haven't come to visit sooner,' Harry says honestly, looking down at her. She has wide, pale blue eyes and a tuft of blond hair growing on her crown like peach fuzz. She reaches up at him with a tiny hand and Harry holds out his finger for her to grab. 'Nice to meet you,' Harry laughs, wiggling his finger as though shaking her hand.

'Eet has been a very busy time for you,' Fleur says. 'She is beautiful, non? She never cries.'

'I'd believe that,' Harry agrees and, as Victoire lets go of his finger to babble and make grabby motions up at his face, he pulls off his glasses and passes the frames to her.

'Oh no, don't do that,' Bill interrupts, wandering over and laughing. 'She'll cover them in slobber.'

Everything has gone extremely blurry, so Harry has a hard time confirming his statement, but through the haze it does look as though Victoire has immediately shoved the arm of his glasses into her mouth and is gumming at them.

'It's fine.' He blinks and looks around at all the blurry shapes surrounding them. Someone has stepped up closer—either Fred, George or Charlie, hard to tell until they speak.

'Put your glasses back on, Harry,' Fred says. 'I know we're ugly, but you don't have to go to these lengths not to look at us.'

'Can I have those back?' Harry asks Victoire playfully, tugging his glasses back from her. He has to wriggle them out of her grasp over the course of several long moments, because she keeps pulling them back and trying to suck on them again. Finally he takes them from her grip and slips them back onto his face damply. 'How are you both?' he asks Bill and Fleur, letting Victoire take his finger again and stick that in her mouth instead.

Up close and with his glasses on, he can tell that they both look very tired. Fleur wears it better, but her face looks paler than usual and her hair is tied up in a very simple ponytail, a few strands falling out around her face. Bill has deep bags under his eyes, clashing with his scarred face.

'Exhausted,' Bill confirms. 'She's perfect, but Merlin, I don't think I've slept a full night since she was born. I'm guessing you and Malfoy aren't planning on having any any time soon?'

Harry looks up, ready to object, when he sees the smirk on Bill's face. 'Oh, shut up,' he mutters. 'Don't believe everything you read in the papers.'

'Oh, we don't,' George says. 'That's why Neil is coming today, isn't it?'

'Who is Neil?' Harry asks, but is interrupted from receiving an answer by several loud cracks in the driveway as Seamus, Dean and Neville all arrive together, carrying a large crate of beer bottles.

‘Harry, mate!’ Dean calls out. ‘Happy birthday! Give us a hand?’

‘I better help them get those inside,’ Harry says, passing Victoire carefully back to Fleur. She tugs on his finger one last time and blows a spit bubble. ‘I’ll see you later,’ he tells her, grinning.

‘Come visit her anytime, ‘Arry.’

‘Yeah, look after her for a day so we can take a nap,’ Bill adds.

Harry nearly runs headlong into Sirius as he jogs over toward his school friends. Sirius seems to also be headed towards the kitchen, and when Harry bumps into him he passes him the beer bottle he had left at the table a few minutes ago. ‘Cute baby,’ Sirius comments.

‘You should go say hi to her,’ Harry suggests. They have come level to Dean, Seamus and Neville, and Harry lets himself be pulled into a one armed hug by Seamus before pulling out his wand to help float the beer crate indoors.

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Sirius scrunch up his nose. ‘Yeah, maybe.’

‘You don’t like babies?’ Harry asks.

‘They’re pretty weird,’ Seamus says. ‘All bald and drooly.’

‘I like babies,’ Sirius says, unconvincingly. ‘I liked you when you were a baby. No. Wait, no I didn’t. That’s a lie. You were gross, and you vomited on me all the time.’

Harry winces. There’s no real way to say _’Maybe don’t talk about me as a baby when I fucked you stupid less than eight hours ago’_ in front of people, so Harry just tries to clue him in with his eyes. ‘You’re good with Teddy,’ he says instead.

‘I think it’s like cats,’ Dean says. ‘As in, you know how cats like people who don’t want anything to do with them? That’s the same reason why kids like Sirius so much.’

Neville sighs as they step into the kitchen. 'Fleur won't let me hold Victoire anymore after I nearly dropped her.' He frowns. 'Although, grandma thinks dropping babies is good for them. Makes the magic kick in sooner.'

'Oh, don't spread that nonsense around,' Mrs Weasley says, turning away from where she is putting some sandwiches together on the bench. She beams as she catches sight of them all and rushes over. 'Harry, there you are! I didn't get to wish you happy birthday properly earlier.' The hug she pulls him into is warm and tight and smells of baking, and Harry squeezes her back before he is let go. Then she frowns, looking at him closely. Her eyes fall from his face to his neck and her brows draw tightly together.

Then she rounds on Sirius. 'What did you do to him?' she asks, sounding appalled, and Harry watches as the colour drains from Sirius' face. Harry watches his godfather's eyes flicker to Harry, then Harry's neck, then land on the moderately obvious hickey, then widen.

'I think it's awesome,' Seamus says.

'Yeah, it's incredible,' Dean agrees. 'The detailing on it, it's really good quality work.'

Harry sucks in a breath, remembering that Mrs Weasley hasn't seen the tattoo yet.

'I, uh, uh—' Sirius stammers, looking like he's about to either turn into a dog or climb out the window to escape.

Harry gives him a very pointed look and says loudly, 'I wanted the tattoo, Mrs Weasley. It wasn't Sirius' idea. I wanted something to remember my parents.'

Realisation washes over Sirius' face as Mrs Weasley turns back around to look at Harry, her expression softening. 'Oh, of course you did, dear.' She tsks as she reaches out to brush his hair away to look at it. 'But really, it's just very...'

'Cool,' Neville interjects.

Mrs Weasley's lips purse. 'If you all say so,' she says tightly. 'But it looks like it hurts, dear.'

'Oh no, it's healed—almost healed.' Harry smiles at her wonkily. 'Sorry. I thought Ron would have told you about it.'

'No, he didn't,' she says crisply, and then sighs. 'I suppose it is quite artistic. Not like—' She cuts herself off, but shoots a quick look at Sirius, who throws his hands in the air. His hands, it must be pointed out, which have 'PAD' tattooed onto the fingers of his right hand and 'FOOT' on the left in heavy black (but slightly faded) ink.

'Thanks, Molly,' he says irritably. 'Is there anything I can do to help?'

'Yes.' She smiles at Harry in apology and turns around to start directing Sirius. 'Take all these out to the garden tables, would you? Just the ones on that bench. And...' She turns to face Seamus, Dean and Neville. 'There is a space outside for drinks, if you want to move those out there. And one of you can take the butterbeer in the fridge out there too.'

Harry tries to turn to help Sirius move the plates of food outdoors, but Mrs Weasley catches him before he can. He glances behind him, but Sirius and the others are already out the door.

'Harry, dear,' she says. 'I just wanted to tell you before he arrives… I hope you don't mind, but we invited a nice boy from the Ministry that Hermione mentioned she wanted you to meet. His name is Nei—'

'Neil,' Harry says, something flipping uncomfortably inside him. 'George mentioned him.'

'Yes!' Mrs Weasley's face breaks into a wide smile. 'Arthur knows him from around the office too, he is very lovely. He'll be arriving soon. Please don't feel like you have to…Well. We just thought you might get along.'

'I, er, okay.' Harry swallows. 'I mean, the more the merrier. I guess.'

'He is a few years older than you, I hope that's okay,' Mrs Weasley says, turning away to finish preparing the sandwiches—which is for the best, as it means she does not see Harry press his fist to his mouth in an effort not to react. 'Not many. I think he's twenty-five. He works in the Goblin Liaison Office.'

'Cool,' Harry says non-committedly. 'Er. Mrs Weasley… I mean, I'm not really, uh, looking for—'

'Of course, dear. But you never know what will come around.' She turns around, holding out the tray of sandwiches. 'Take these out?'

Harry takes them and forces a smile which drops from his face the moment he's out the door. He wanders in the direction of the lunch tables set up on the lawn. He can see Ron and Hermione standing near a plate of muffins and makes a beeline in their direction—but finds himself stopped on the way by a hand on his arm.

'Harry, you alright?'

He jumps slightly, nearly dropping some of the sandwiches from the top of his towering plate. He steadies himself just in time to turn to look at Ginny, who quickly pulls out her wand and freezes the one tumbling sandwich before it hits the ground. She grabs it out of the air and takes a bite.

'Oh, shit— Hi Ginny.' Harry forces another smile, but he can tell from her expression that it's not a remotely convincing one. He feels slightly nervous to be talking to her. It has been ages since he last saw Ginny. She has been touring all around playing with her team, and the last time they spoke, well. It had been back when there had still been a giant, awkward question mark above their heads sort of like a wedding arch. 'Yeah, no, everything is fine.'

She quirks an eyebrow, flicking her hair over her shoulder. 'Really? Because you were scowling pretty hard a second ago, and usually I know what that means.'

'And what's that?'

'That you are throwing an internal hissy fit.' She takes another large bite out of her sandwich. 'I saw you talking to mum. Did she say something about the tattoo?'

'Well, yeah. But she kinda came around on it.'

Ginny scrunches up her face in annoyance. 'Ugh. You're lucky you are you. Bill has been wanting to get some for years, but he knows she'd come down like a storm. What is it, then?'

'Nothing, she just... Well. Hermione, I guess. Actually, it seems like a few people know about it. They've invited—'

Throwing back her head, Ginny laughs. 'Oh, Neil, right?'

'Yeah.'

'Oof, yeah. Don't envy you, Harry.' She gently thumps his shoulder, careful not to knock the tray again. 'At least they've moved on from you and me, right? And all we had to do was, what? Turn gay?'

Harry snickers, some of the anxiety inside him easing. It actually might be easier to talk to Ginny like this, now, without the constant spectre of their much-anticipated reunion. He has actually missed her—even when they have been together. Missed the easy friendship they used to share. 'Do you know anything about this guy?' he asks.

'Only that he is Family Approved(TM),' Ginny says. 'There's a thing going on in some Departments at the Ministry where they're doing muggle movie nights as team building or something, and Neil and dad are both big into it. He sounds… nice.'

'Oh, cool,' Harry says hesitantly, and Ginny laughs.

'Put those sandwiches down,' she says. 'And if you need to run away from suitors at all today, you're welcome to hide behind my girlfriend.' She waves across the garden, Harry follows her gaze to look at Leonora, who is drinking a beer with Charlie Weasley and stands a good head and shoulders over him. Ginny leans close to Harry and whispers, 'She's very big.'

Harry grins. 'Thanks, I'll do that.'

He joins Ron and Hermione at the main table and finally finishes his beer as he chats to them for a while as further people begin to arrive and mill around the garden. Everyone seems very relaxed, moving around and sitting in the shade of trees around the garden, talking and eating and drinking. People wander over continuously to talk to Harry and his friends, wishing him a happy birthday every time until he's kind of sick of it. It's good to see everyone, but between being very sleepy and vaguely reluctant to meet this guy he's meant to be being set up with, Harry kind of wishes he could just fade into the background and sit with Ron and Hermione and Sirius and keep to himself.

He keeps finding his gaze drifting to Sirius, who at first just stands next to the beer cooler and chats with Mr Weasley for a while until Remus and Tonks show up, wandering down the driveway with Teddy waddling alongside them. From there, Teddy doesn't seem remotely interested in leaving Sirius alone, and every time Harry's gaze drifts to his godfather for the next hour or so, it is to find him sitting on the ground playing with the small boy and talking animatedly to Remus, who is half listening and half-watching his son carefully to make sure he doesn't barrel into anyone.

But—just as Harry is starting to relax—Neil shows up. Hermione clues him in with nudge and a quick, 'Oh, here he is!' and a point across the garden.

Harry follows her gaze. 'Hermione...' he mutters as she waves the boy over. 'I really don't—'

'Just go along with it,' Ron says into his beer. 'The quicker you can make everyone forget about that thing in the Prophet with Malfoy, the better, right?'

Harry frowns. Neil is a very nice looking wizard and he smiles widely as he wanders over across the garden. He has ash blond hair and a toothy grin, cheerful dark brown eyes and a kind of stupid moustache/goatee combination. He greets Hermione first, before shaking hands with Ron. He does that thing where he clasps his hand over the top of their handshake, squeezing and pulling him close as he says, 'How's it going?'

'Great, thanks,' Ron says, kind of awkwardly.

'Neil, this is Harry,' Hermione says brightly, pulling him away from Ron (who rubs his hands once Neil has let them go before shoving them in his pockets).

Harry readies himself for an overly intimate handshake as well, but Neil manages to switch it up. Rather than clasping both of his hands to Harry's, he squeezes his hand hard with one and reaching out the other hand to grab Harry's elbow, gripping tight. To his credit, he doesn't in any way indicate any sort of awe at Harry's presence, and instead just says, 'So good to finally meet you, Harry. Hermione has told me a lot about you.'

'Oh, uh, has she?' Harry glances at Hermione helplessly, still trapped in this very binding handshake. 'I mean, there's not much to tell...'

Finally, Neil releases him with a throaty laugh. 'No, of course not,' he says agreeably. 'It sounds like you've lived a perfectly quiet, dull life.'

Harry rubs his arm where Neil was gripping him and quirks his lips in a depreciating smile. 'I try,' he replies.

'Neil is going some very interesting work legislating compliance with goblin banking regulations abroad, isn't that right?' Hermione says, and—not to Harry's surprise—does genuinely sound extremely interested in the topic. 'Why don't you tell us about it?'

Neil has a lovely way of speaking—very engaging and funny and (again to his credit) seems to recognise how dull regulatory compliance is to most people who aren't him or Hermione. For a while, they actually have a fairly pleasant chat, the four of them, and Harry can see why Hermione wanted to set him up with Neil. He is outgoing, nice, and just a little bit weird. And, he supposes, fairly attractive if you don't mind bad facial hair.

As Neil is telling a story about his Department nearly getting sued by a muggle radio company, Harry looks past his shoulder and catches Sirius' eye. His godfather is no longer playing with Teddy (who is running around after Tonks on the other side of the garden roaring like a dragon, his skin turned green and scaly). Instead, he is leaning against the fence with Remus, watching Harry with his head cocked.

 _'Who's this guy?'_ he mouths.

Harry glances back at Neil, who is saying, 'And so, it's hard _not_ to keep a Confidentiality Agreement if you make it so anyone who reads the contract just gets a wee dose of a memory charm.'

Harry forces a laugh. 'Excuse me a moment,' he says, glancing between Ron and Hermione. 'Just gotta pop to the bathroom.'

'Hurry back,' says Neil with a warm smile.

'Will do,' Harry says, and leaves his empty beer bottle on the table as he wanders in the direction of the house. He looks at Sirius again pointedly and, just as he is reaching the side door into the living room, Sirius and Remus sidle up to meet him, following Harry into the empty living room.

Once inside, Harry lets out a long groan.

'So, who is the bloke?' Sirius asks, clearly aiming for casual and missing by a mile.

' _Neil_ ,' Harry says and throws himself down on the sofa, glaring at the window. 'Possibly my future arranged husband.'

He sees Sirius' eye twitch.

Remus simply smiles. ‘Oh?’

‘He works at the Ministry. Hermione loves him, Mr Weasley apparently does movie nights with him. I’m being set up, I guess.’

‘What’s he like?’ Remus asks.

Harry glances at Sirius. There is a shadow in his godfather’s eyes and he’s scowling, but Remus hasn’t noticed. ‘Er, he’s nice, I guess.’

‘He looks _charming_ ,’ Sirius says dryly, sounding bitter. With a raised eyebrow, Remus turns to look at him.

‘Not a fan?’

Sirius just shrugs moodily. ‘Don’t know him.’

‘I’d give him a chance,’ Remus muses. ‘He might end up being your god-son-in-law.’

The scowl on Sirius’ face deepens, and Harry quickly interrupts. ‘I don’t—I mean, I didn’t want anyone to try to set me up today.’ He sighs, tilting his head back on the chair. He feels so tired from last night. The last thing he wants is to be trying to navigate this situation and Sirius’ apparent jealousy. ‘I just want a quiet birthday,’ he mutters.

He can’t hide from the party for long. He kind of wishes Remus hadn’t followed him inside with Sirius, so that he could take this chance to reassure Sirius that he has nothing to be jealous of. Instead he just takes a breather for as long as he can justify, before glancing back outside towards where Ron, Hermione and Neil are waiting for him, and sighing.

‘We all have our burdens to bear,’ Remus jokes.

Neil is very friendly as they all sit down to lunch. A bit too friendly, really, all things considered. He sits beside Harry close enough that their legs press together, and as he is plating up food he constantly serves up a bit of whatever he is eating onto Harry's plate before taking some for himself.

'Really, I'm fine,' Harry says almost every time he does this—but it doesn't seem to work and soon enough Harry has a plate heaped high with potato salad and quiche. Across the table, he catches Sirius' eye, who just raises an eyebrow very slowly and takes a sip from his beer.

The problem is that lunch is lovely. Even Neil's flirting is lovely. He has an effortless yet intense way of speaking with everyone that conversation seems to swirl around him like a whirlpool. He will overhear something and snatch the speaker out of thin air, pulling them into the discussion so smoothly and welcoming that even if he cuts someone off mid sentence—which he does, many times—he does it in a way that makes every person at the table feel included.

And yet he never seems to quite lose focus from Harry. His smile is infectious, and when he spirals Ginny into an in depth conversation about Quidditch maneuvers; or when he weaves Mr Weasley into an analysis of _Shakespeare in Love_ , which they watched last week; or when he gets Charlie talking about how he got the long, recent burn across his shoulder; Harry cannot help but laugh and get caught up in the discussion.

'Harry's fought a dragon,' Charlie adds at one point. 'Multiple dragons?'

'We don't talk about the second dragon,' Harry says, feeling Neil's gaze zero in on him again and glancing at him to meet his eyes. Behind his stupid moustache, his smile is amused and interested.

'I might be out of my depth,' he says lightly. 'A dragon fighter.'

'Fight is a strong word,' Harry replies. He lets other people tell the stories—they tell them better. But Neil, like the little conversation spider he is, catches on any bit of web he can to pull Harry back in, keeping him laughing, keeping him talking, until Harry finds himself bent over the table, choking his way through laughter as Ron interrupts him again and again as they try to get out their versions of riding the dragon out of Gringotts.

'It was terrifying!' Harry insists, barely managing to get the words out. 'I can't believe you can't just tell it _right_.'

'We must have been as high up as one of those, er, muggle air-planes when we jumped off the dragon's back!' Ron says, gesturing toward the sky and Harry chokes again.

'Ron, no—'

'No, I swear on Merlin's itchy—'

'You have no idea how high a plane flies.'

'We passed one as we were on the dragon's back! I saw the muggles through the window.'

'You bloody well didn't!'

'Back me up, Hermione.'

'We would have died, Ron,' Hermione says, chuckling. 'It was only about forty or fifty feet.'

'How high do planes fly?'

'A lot higher than that.'

'Well, it is very impressive either way,' Neil says, leaning in an winking at Harry. Harry is already smiling, so he grins back—Neil's eyes crinkle happily and he holds Harry's gaze for a long moment before finally looking away.

It takes Harry a moment to turn away, watching and listening where Neil has started to lure Bill into the conversation with something about Gringotts and dragons. But after a second he catches himself and glances quickly at Sirius, who is slouching back in his chair across and down the table, looking thoroughly sulky. Remus is leaning in and whispering something to him, but Sirius just scowls and lifts his beer bottle to his mouth.

Harry smiles at his godfather, half apologetically. Sirius' lips quirk up only slightly and he winks at him, clearly mocking Neil's mannerisms. No one at the table notices.

After everyone has eaten their fill and the plates are cleared of food, Mrs Weasley hovers a very large, wobbling, charmingly iced cake out to the table along with a couple of bottles of bubbly. The cake is tall enough that when it settles down in front of Harry, it all but obscures him from view—but he does manage to catch the glance Mrs Weasley passes between him and Neil, looking very pleased with herself.

'Well,' she says. 'I know we've already said it, but happy birthday, Harry dear.'

'Please, no speeches,' Harry says quickly, anticipating Ron already rising up from the table and reaching for a floating glass for some bubbly.

'Relax, Harry,' Ron says, plucking a chipped flute out of the air and sitting back down. 'There's nothing anyone could say about you which hasn't been repeated to Durmstrang and back. But, with that said... I first met Harry on the Hogwarts Express, ten years ago. The dictionary defines speccy git as—'

'Shut up or I'll hex you,' Harry says as most of the table bursts into laughter.

Molly smiles fondly and glances at Sirius. 'You're his godfather,' she says. 'Do you want to say anything?'

Perhaps because he's already a little bit drunk, Sirius just says, 'He's technically been a legal adult for years.'

Harry snorts into his hand. Mrs Weasley slaps Sirius' shoulder.

'Say something nice,' she says, but Sirius is already standing up and grinning. He holds out his hand and a glass jumps into it. With another flick of his hand the cork pops out of one of the bottles and sparkling wine pours itself into his glass. Sirius holds it aloft.

'Twenty-one years,' Sirius announces. His smile drops for a second, and he swallows. 'Harry, I gave a speech at your dad's twenty-first birthday party. Those were very different times. It's a bit of a stretch calling it a party, and you were there for that speech, so I won't repeat any of it, even though you don’t remember. I think people usually talk about milestones in these things, but as you know, I was in prison for most of yours. I'm meant to also talk about your achievements, but as Ron helpfully points out, everyone here knows all about those.' He smiles again, looking directly at Harry. 'And besides, you are much more than your achievements, to all of us here. I can see from your face that you really want me to shut up...'

'I do,' Harry replies, but his voice comes out quieter than he means it to. That first mention of his father's twenty-first has his chest aching—knowing that it was only months before, well. Everything.

'I won't go on. It's enough to say I'm very proud of you. We’re all proud of you, and if everyone wants to grab a glass of bubbly, we can probably all drink to that, right?' He lifts his glass as champagne pours out around the table, and waits for everyone to raise their own before taking a sip and turning to Mrs Weasley. 'How was that, Molly?'

Mrs Weasley dabs at her eyes with her apron, and says, 'Fine, Sirius.'

'Stop crying, mum,' Fred puts in. 'Every single birthday, I swear.'

She wipes her eyes harder. 'Hush,' she says, but smiles.

The cake is good. The bubbly is good. Harry manages to hold Sirius' gaze for several long moments as he rests his chin on his hand on the table and mouths, 'Thank you.'

Sirius grins back, winking again—but more genuinely, this time.

Neil, however, sweeps back in like a knife through butter, keen to steal Harry's attention again. 'I don't think I've ever learned less about someone's life from a speech,' he comments, dark eyes still sparkling.

'Good,' Harry says, turning back to him. Neil is leaning closer now, champagne glass in hand and hemming in Harry's space on the table with his body.

'Like being a bit mysterious?' he asks, teasingly.

'If only.'

When everyone starts getting up from the table to spread out around the garden once more, it is like a wave of relief. Everyone is full and the sun has warmed up, so the whole party just spreads out in small clumps across the grass, sitting and talking. Harry stands up when Ron and Hermione do, and Neil follows the motion—but Harry just says, 'Sorry, I'll be back in a bit,' and wanders around off to where Sirius is sitting on the grass with Tonks.

He puts his hand on his godfather's shoulder. 'Got a mo?' he asks, and Sirius tilts his head back to look up at him.

'Managed to ditch that sweet boy, did you Harry?' Tonks asks, grinning up at him.

'For a few minutes, at least,' Harry replies as Sirius pushes himself up off the ground.

'What a shame, he seems very… intense.'

'He's very nice,' Harry says, feeling slightly defensive for some reason. It is similar to the feeling of defensiveness he gets about Luna, which probably speaks (in general) to Hermione's potential talent for matching people to him.

‘Oy, when you joining me and the Aurors?’ Tonks asks. ‘They all can’t wait to have you on the team.’

‘Some time in the new year, I guess,’ Harry tells her, hesitantly: in truth, he hasn’t been thinking about it that much. Has been deliberately _avoiding_ thinking about it.

He glances at Sirius, who is standing next to him now, hands in his pockets. 'What is it, Harry?' he asks.

'Nothing, just want to steal you,' he replies, and jerks his head towards the back of the house. 'Come along?'

Sirius walks slowly behind Harry as they slip away from the party. Harry just follows the wall of the Burrow which, thanks to the unconventional layout of the house, turns and dips several times until they are in a private little brick nook on the other side of the building and most of the sound of the party has fallen away.

Harry turns to face Sirius, who just looks down at him curiously and glances between the obscuring walls with a raised eyebrow.

'Are you okay?' Harry asks, dropping his voice. He knows no one can really hear them from here, but still he feels cautious, as though people are going to think he's stealing Sirius away for an illicit hook up and not an emotional godfather/godson private talk which is, admittedly, their usual modus operandi.

'Me? I'm fine,' Sirius replies, unconvincingly. 'How about you? I mean, if I were in your place I'd probably have a stomach ache from all that sickly sweet flirting, but I don't know. Maybe you like it. What a nice boy. Like a baklava made flesh.'

'Is that meant to be an insult?' Harry asks. 'You love baklava.'

'What? No. I'm being completely genuine,' Sirius says, disingenuously.

Harry gives him a long look. 'I'm not flirting back, you know.'

Sirius sighs. 'I know.' He scratches his chin and looks up at the sky, not meeting Harry's eyes. 'I happen to be aware of what you look like when you're flirting. But you like him.'

'Sort of,' Harry concedes, and prods Sirius in the arm, forcing him to look down at him. 'He seems like a good guy and I can see why Hermione and Mrs Weasley wanted to set me up with him. But I'm not interested.'

'Maybe you should be.'

'What does that mean?'

'Just that—' Sirius sighs. 'Look, we're hiding behind the house having a, what… relationship conversation?' The words seem to be pulled out of Sirius' throat by force or veritaserum, and his mouth twists around them. 'Is that what this is?'

'Yes.'

'Okay, well. I just don't want you to have to hide,' Sirius says. 'Not with Neil, necessarily, I really hate his beard.'

'Me too,' Harry says with a smile.

'But in general. I don't like I’m feeling like I'm dooming you to something hidden and secretive when you don't have to have that.'

Dropping his gaze, Harry peers down at the grass under their feet, frowning. He knows what Sirius means, and he cannot pretend it is not something that he is concerned about. It feels like he is surrounded by settled, established couples and the expectation to fit that mold weighs on him heavily. 'I'm sick of expectations,' he mutters to Sirius. 'I'm sick of people wanting certain things for me.' Reaching out, he takes Sirius' hand and takes a step closer.

With a breath out, Sirius pulls him in and wraps his arm around Harry's shoulders in a loose hug. 'Yeah,' he says. 'And I get it.'

'Do you?' Harry swallows. 'Do you want this? Relationships talks and all?'

He feels Sirius' nod before he hears his quiet, murmured reply. 'Yes.'

'Then I want it.' Harry tilts his head up to look at his godfather. 'And I know that doesn't really solve the problem. But we can think of something.'

Sirius' lip quirks. 'We are good at that.'

'You know what I do want?' Harry asks, dropping his hands to Sirius' hips and tucking his thumbs in his belt loops. 'I could go a good snog.'

Glancing over his shoulder, Sirius double checks that they are alone—kind of pointless, really, given that to anyone overhearing the conversation the cat would already be well and truly out of the bag. However, once assured that they are, Sirius leans in and kisses Harry deeply, pulling him up against him.

It is a better kiss than Harry was expecting. He had been picturing something quiet and secret—stolen. But Sirius kisses him like he has been wanting to for hours. He groans into his mouth and lets his hands explore Harry's body. It is dizzying, and Harry feels half tempted to drag him somewhere more secret than this. Instead, he lets himself be pushed against the wall so that his shirt grazes rough brickwork and he is hoisted up onto his toes by Sirius slipping his knee between his legs, and—

And the sudden sound of footsteps a few feet away and childish laughter. Sirius jumps back immediately as though jolted by electricity, and Harry has just enough time to stand up properly and straightened his shirt before he sees a flash of purple hair turn the corner around knee height, and, following a second after; Remus.

Harry lets out a breath and drops to his knees. 'Teddy!' he says keenly, and finds himself with an armful of toddler a second later. Hoisting Teddy up so that he's holding him, he grins down at him as the headful of purple hair suddenly goes black and flyaway to match Harry's.

‘Uncle Harry!’ Teddy says, just as excitedly.

Remus looks between Harry and Sirius expectantly. ‘Sorry if we interrupted your chat,’ he says.

Sirius clears his throat. ‘No, it’s fine. We were just about to come back to the party.’

‘Good,’ Remus says. ‘Harry, why don’t you take Teddy? He wants to show you his dinosaurs, I think.’

Harry hoists Teddy up higher on his hip. He’s much heavier than the last time he held him. ‘Dinosaurs?!’ he asks, faking outrage as Teddy giggles. ‘Not dragons?’

‘You can see dragons anywhere!’ Teddy says, as though it's obvious. ‘Mums got my dinos.’

‘Alright, how bout we head back to mum, then?’ Harry asks, and casts one quick, awkward glance at Sirius, who nods.

‘I didn’t say it properly earlier,’ Remus says as they walk back around the house, ‘but happy birthday, Harry. Sirius’ speech reminded me, but you really look so much like your father did at, at this age.’

Harry smiles. ‘Thank you,’ he says, slightly choked—but despite the warmth in Remus’ tone, when he glances over at him, he’s looking meaningfully at Sirius, who is looking up at the cloudless sky as if there is something very, very interesting up there that no one else can see.


	13. Chapter 13

For the next few weeks, Harry cannot help but feel that he and Sirius could do this secretly forever, and he would be content. Holistically speaking, he is the happiest he has ever been. Most things barely change. Harry sees his friends, he visits Teddy, he goes flying—he does all the things he has ever done. He and Sirius keep working on the house. The upstairs spare bedroom slowly turns into a library, the walls lined with empty shelves. They have visitors. Remus comes to stay on a full moon, and Harry brews his first perfect wolfsbane potion that month.

But woven between it all, Harry has Sirius and it feels so easy that he can't remember how he ever lived without it. He can't imagine not waking up most mornings in his godfather's bed with an arm slung over his chest and Sirius drooling into the pillow next to him; or waking up in his own bed with his face pressed into dark fur. It quickly becomes muscle memory to kiss Sirius in the mornings and pass him his tea, and to kiss him in the evenings watching telly, and to climb into his lap and kiss down his chest and lower still.

Muggle London has always felt like freedom to both of them. It has been a place to escape from the whispers which follow them everywhere, to get lost in a crowd. For Sirius, it is a place to indulge in the culture his family looked down on. For Harry, it is a chance to have the experiences he was denied as a child. It is something they have shared for a long time, but now more than ever, Harry cannot help but love setting foot out of the house with Sirius and setting out into the muggle world.

Sometimes they head out with Sirius as a dog and strangers coo at Harry's huge, handsome and impeccably trained hound. ("Impeccably trained" seems like a stretch to Harry, who has seen Sirius eat half an old hamburger off the ground twice before) But what Harry enjoys most is just going out for a coffee and breakfast at their local cafe—same as always—and being able to lean into Sirius' arm around his shoulders or slip his hand into his godfather's without anyone seeming to care. Sure, a couple of brown guys with two decades’ age difference being visibly queer in public might not be the most common thing to see, even in the muggle world. But it's a big city, and what with Sirius' general vibe of having spent a lot of time in prison, no one is exactly going to start anything with them.

The first time Sirius stands up from their little table by the window, leaving his half-eaten omelette behind, and comes around to tilt Harry's chin up so that he can kiss him softly and sweetly, right in the middle of the open cafe (before he wanders up to the counter to order another coffee) has Harry's heart fluttering in his chest and his cheeks warming like they never have before.

'Anything for your boyfriend?' Harry hears the familiar server at the counter ask Sirius.

It feels like warmth spreading through Harry's bones when Sirius just says, 'Yeah, another of the same.'

*

The house is empty when Harry gets home from having lunch with Ron and Hermione. It is Ron's last day of leisure before returning to auror training for his final year, so they went to that trendy little place in Diagon Alley and Harry ate the best (admittedly only) lentil salad he's had in his life.

('Don't miss it, Harry?' Ron asked.

'What? Five AM starts and endless painful training and stealth assignments and getting into bed after midnight?'

'Yeah, don't miss it?'

'No. Like you're glad to be heading back?'

'I am, actually.'

'Nuts.')

It isn't a surprise that he returns to an empty, quiet Grimmauld Place. Sirius had left the house at the same time as him this morning to run some errands, and had said something about visiting Moony later, as he ruffled Harry's hair and walked out the door.

It also isn't a surprise when Harry finds a little wrapped present sitting on his pillow like a hotel mint. The package is small and square, only a few inches long, and Harry's first thought is of jewellery or something—but he knows Sirius wouldn't get him what, a necklace or whatever, without him asking first.

Harry sits down on the bed and picks up the present, flipping it over a couple of times in his hands before unwrapping it, grinning to himself.

What _is_ a surprise is the contents of the package.

For a long moment, he doesn't know what he is looking at. It is a plain, teal coloured box with the word _PLAY_ written on the top in curling letters, and a picture of something that looks kind of like the egg from alien. Harry stares at the box wondering if he's looking at a wizard thing or a muggle thing, before turning it over to read the back and seeing the words "butt plug" and really, that's all he needs to know.

Or, well, no. That isn't all he needs to know. What he probably needs to know is why Sirius left a butt plug on his pillow. Sure, they've been screwing around like rabbits, all over the house. But they haven't talked about anything like toys or…

They also haven't, well. The implication here, as best as Harry can parse it with his fairly limited muggle sex toy knowledge, is that he put this thing in his arse. And they haven't done that. So far, all the arse-putting has been done on Sirius' end. Harry has zero objections to putting things in his arse. He feels that he has made this clear, but Sirius has also made it clear that he, too, enjoys it and is hesitant to do anything which could result in any level of discomfort for Harry which is, at this point, coddling.

Still, this is a butt plug, and it is on Harry's pillow. Seems like a fairly obvious cue.

Grinning, he immediately pulls his shirt off over his head and kicks his legs into the air to tug off his trousers and underpants. He isn't sure what time Sirius will be home, but hopefully it won't be too long. Images flash through Harry's mind of getting this thing in, touching himself until he's juuuuuust about there and then stopping, redressing and going downstairs to get dinner ready and wait.

So that's what he does.

Plucking off the seal on the box with his fingernail, Harry pulls out the butt plug and inspects it. It is matte black, made of silicone, and quite small. It's not like he's sure what the normal size for one is, but this doesn't seem particularly intimidating in any fashion. It is egg shaped, narrower at the insertion end and then tapering off into a little neck before flaring out at the base, which is embedded with a little glass crystal, the colour of an oil spill. And okay, maybe this _is_ jewellery after all.

Sirius took the time a couple of weeks ago to teach him that lubrication spell, which is handy. Harry is generous with it for this—if he's going to be wearing this thing for a couple of hours, he doesn't want anything drying out. He takes his time luxuriating on the bed, warming himself up and getting ready. He wanks himself slowly for a while before slipping his slicked fingers between his legs and opening himself up. He waits until he is close before taking his hand from his prick and fumbling around for the plug next to him.

He groans as he pushes it in. It is a slight stretch; bigger than the two fingers he had been using, but not uncomfortably so. More than anything, once it is fully seated inside and Harry can just put his fingers on the little jeweled end and rock gently into the sensation, it just feels like fullness. Each shift inside him sends little dancing waves of pleasure to his cock, which is nice. He was slightly worried it was going to be too much, but no. He can see himself wearing this indefinitely.

Focusing on those little shifts and little sparks of pleasure and thinking of Sirius later tonight, Harry takes his cock in hand again and only has to stroke himself a dozen times before he has to stop, squeezing off the base of his prick to halt himself from coming.

He lies on his bed for a while, breathing heavily, before finally pushing himself up on slightly trembling arms to reach for his pants and get dressed. Somehow the little shocks of pleasure from the plug feel even _more_ now that he is wearing clothes and moving. He has to pause a couple of times as he goes downstairs, gripping onto the bannister and closing his eyes, laughing under his breath as he tries to tamp down the sensations enough to get down to the kitchen.

Harry takes his time preparing dinner, a spiced cauliflower soup, conscious of both the sensations shivering up his spine and the constant expectation of hearing the door open upstairs. He wonders if he's going to tell Sirius he's wearing the plug, or wait to eat first and take him up to bed after… let him find out for himself.

He is smiling to himself and just pulling golden cauliflower from the oven to add to the finished dish when he finally hears Sirius get home.

'Something smells amazing,' his godfather calls out from the top of the stairs.

Harry summons a couple of deep bowls from one of the cupboards and carefully fills them with soup as he hears Sirius approach the kitchen. 'Hungry?' he asks innocently, putting the bowls down side by side on the table. He wants Sirius sitting next to him, not opposite.

'I could eat.' Sirius comes around and pulls Harry into a kiss before he sits down. Then he pulls back, brow furrowed. 'You alright, Harry? You look a little flushed.'

'Mmhm,' Harry hums, leaning back in to kiss him again, a little sloppier than he probably means to. It's a bit of a mess actually, because once he's got Sirius kissing him he doesn't really want him to stop, and he finds himself pressing up close to Sirius, tongue deep in his mouth and hips rolling against his thigh. He feels Sirius smile into the kiss.

'Do you actually want dinner, baby boy?' he murmurs, hands sliding down to the dip of Harry's lower back. 'Or did you miss me?'

Harry pulls back and shakes his head, as if to clear it. 'Dinner,' he murmurs, and nudges Sirius. 'Dinner first, and then I want you.’ 

Sirius smiles. 'We can do that.'

Still, Harry can't quite resist teasing Sirius all through the meal. He opens a bottle of red to go with the soup and flat-bread, but slips his hand under the table to feel him up whenever he goes to take a sip so that—more than once—Sirius nearly chokes on his wine. Harry starts off light and gentle, stroking Sirius' thigh, but gets bolder quickly; rubbing him through his trousers so that he knows he is hard and wanting.

Consequently, it takes quite a while to get through the whole dinner.

At one point, where they're actually both eating and Harry has removed his hand from his godfather's dick for five fucking minutes, Sirius grins around the rim of his wine glass and asks, 'Did you find the present I left for you?'

Harry smirks into his soup. He feels almost like, although he's ostensibly keeping it on the down low, Sirius can't _not_ know what has got him so worked up. 'Yep.'

'You should wear it,' Sirius says, and Harry catches his eyes, giving him a long, dark look.

' _Yes_ ,' he says meaningfully.

Sirius gives him a slightly curious look, glancing down at Harry's hands—which are on the table and on the spoon, being perfectly innocent, thank you very much. Then he shrugs and puts down his own spoon, instead lifting his bowl to his mouth with both hands and slurping down what is left of his soup. Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he stands up.

'Wait here for a moment,' he tells Harry, pushing his chair in.

Harry glances up at him, soup halfway to his mouth. Honestly, he's starting to get a little impatient. He doesn't want Sirius going anywhere, he wants to push him down on a flat surface and sit on his cock. 'I'm done eating,' he says and drops his spoon into his bowl. 'I'll come with you.'

Sirius smirks. 'No, just gimme two minutes, I'll be right back.'

And he goes upstairs. Harry slumps back in his chair and closes his eyes. The feeling of fullness inside him is still very distracting. Rocking back into the sensation, he rubs one hand over his collarbones, pushing at his shirt collar. It is starting to feel constricting, overly warm. In fact, his whole body feels overly warm, tightly wound and—

'FUCK!'

He hears Sirius' voice echo down from upstairs and jerks in his seat, opening his eyes. His heart pounds rapidly in his chest, startled, and he is already pushing his own chair back and halfway to his feet, hand reaching for his wand, when he hears Sirius' laughter following the curse. It sounds slightly hysterical.

'What's wrong?' Harry calls up the stairs as he crosses the kitchen and starts his way up toward the landing. The sudden movement also jolted the plug inside him, which is an interesting feeling mixed with hair-trigger reflex hyper-vigilance.

Sirius' laughter sounds a little bit choked now, as though he is coughing around it. _Fuck it_ , Harry thinks, and apparates upstairs to the third floor.

' _Ohh,_ ' he mumbles, stumbling slightly from the twisting, unfamiliar movement inside him as he reappears outside Sirius' door, bare toes curling in the rough carpeting in the hallway. He blinks several times, and leans into Sirius' room where his godfather is standing next to his bedside table and bent double, still cackling.

'Harry,' Sirius chokes out. 'I fucked up.' He is holding something in his hand, a small box wrapped in brown paper. The side of the paper has been peeled back so Harry can barely see a flash of what is inside. Sirius holds it out, wiping tears from his eyes as he finally manages to stop laughing.

Harry shoots him a baffled look and takes the box. 'What is it?' he asks, although he is already moving to unwrap it.

'What I meant to leave on your bed,' Sirius replies.

Halfway through peeling back the paper, Harry looks up. 'Uh, what?'

Sirius points at what is in this hands. 'It's a present. I meant to leave it for you on your bed when I got home. But I think I, um. Got it mixed up with something else.'

Realisation dawns on Harry and he feels his eyebrows rising higher and his cheeks warming. He glances down, tugging off the last of the paper on the box, to reveal a small package holding a lovely leather-strapped watch. The face is engraved in Roman numerals as well as a few smaller, intertwining circles full of spiraling planets. It is clearly of wizard make and it is very nice. It is not, however, a butt plug.

'This is what you wanted me to find?' Harry asks, his lips twitching. 'Er. I like it. Thank you.'

'I left a butt plug on your pillow.'

'You did, yeah.' Flipping the watch over in his hands, Harry smirks. 'They were the same size in the box, I can see where the confusion came up.'

'I was in a bit of a hurry to meet Remus,' Sirius says. He pushes his hair back off his face and looks hopelessly at Harry. 'I meant to, I mean. The… toy was, um.'

'Was what?'

Sirius bites his thumbnail and half-grins, half-winces. 'For me?'

'Oh.' Harry clears his throat, clenching slightly around the plug inside him. 'Uh. Um.'

'Well, for—I was going to—'

'You want it back?' Harry asks. His smirk is really threatening to break out into a full smile, but he just keeps looking down at the watch. He tugs open the tap at the top of the package and pulls it out, dropping the box on Sirius' dresser and slipping the watch onto his wrist. 'How do you set this thing?'

Taking a step forward, Sirius pulls out his wand and takes Harry's hand in his own. He taps the watch once and says, ' _Tempus Stellae_.' The planets inside the clocks begin to circle rapidly, swirling in intricate patterns of orbits looking like blurred, multicoloured lights until they slowly begin to settle and the hands of the clock tick into place. Once they've stopped, Sirius nudges Harry's jaw up with his knuckle to look at him.

The smile breaks on Harry's face, toothy and crinkling his eyes with amusement. 'Hi,' he says, a bit stupidly. He feels stupid. He feels full and aroused, a low strum of pleasure inside him that he wants to drag out forever until he can drive Sirius mad with it. 'Er, about the mix-up...'

'Yeah, sorry, that must have seemed—'

'No,' Harry interrupts. 'I'm really asking if you want it back.'

'Well, unless you...' Sirius trails off, then narrows his eyes. He looks Harry up and down, taking in his flushed cheeks and his bitten lips and his dumb, horny grin. Then his gaze drops lower, and he lets out a soft growl in the back of his throat. 'Harry,' he mutters. 'You're not, you haven't...?'

Harry raises his eyebrows meaningfully.

'Harry...'

'What, daddy?' Harry asks innocently.

The growl in Sirius' throat turns into a rumbling laugh and he tugs at Harry's hand, drawing him closer. 'Holy shit,' he says, trying to pull Harry into a kiss. But Harry ducks and dodges away, grinning. He feels Sirius' lips brush his hair instead and then his godfather is burying his face into his neck and breathing in, moving his hands to clutch tight at Harry's hips.

Harry wriggles out of his grip and playfully takes a step back, just out of reach. 'Use your words,' he teases.

Sirius looks at him hungrily. 'Get back here.'

'Different words.'

'Baby, I need to see you,' Sirius groans.

Harry takes another quick step backwards as Sirius moves toward him. 'You're looking at me.'

'I need to see all of you.' Taking another step closer, Sirius reaches out and catches Harry's wrist. 'Merlin, you have to be kidding me. You're not actually wearing it are you? Right now?'

Harry twists his hand out of Sirius' grip easily; his godfather lets him go the moment Harry moves to be released, but breathes out a low, deprived moan as he does so. 'Wearing _what_?' Harry presses. Teasing Sirius is fun, because he is never shy—but sometimes he seems to become overwhelmed and at these times words fail him and he speaks only in actions.

But Harry wants words.

'The—the—' Sirius is stammering on the sounds, frustration evident in his voice. 'The fucking plug, Harry. Are you wearing it?'

 _There we go._ 'I might be.'

Something like a sob. 'I need to _see_ ,' Sirius grits out. His gaze looks feral, hair falling in his eyes. Still advancing, a stalking hound.

Harry licks his lips. He has hit the doorway now, the landing behind his back. He can still feel this deep fullness inside of him, heavy and intoxicating, and he wants Sirius to work for it. 'Or...' he offers. 'I could make you catch me.'

'Don't,' Sirius begs—but Harry has already let out a laugh and ducked out into the hallway. He is faster than Sirius: he is faster than most people. Even distracted by the subtle movements of the plug inside him, it is easy enough to duck out of Sirius' reach again and again as he pursues him. They are both laughing, moving from room to room. Sirius seems wild with desire and Harry is torn between making it a drawn out game, leading him from room to room, and letting himself be caught.

This floor is a maze of winding passages. Most rooms have narrow doors into other rooms (and sometimes not the room directly next to them), and every room is dusty, overcrowded, dilapidated or half-renovated, nothing but expanses of empty space.

Harry lets Sirius catch up to him first briefly in the study. His godfather is breathing heavily, although whether from the chase or from arousal it is hard to say, and Harry pauses long enough by the door to let himself be tackled around the waist and pushed against the wall.

'Ahh—!' Harry gets out, spikes of pleasure causing him to arch up against Sirius' body as the toy nudges his prostate suddenly. The surprised noise drags into an almost pained moan when Sirius slides his hand down the base of Harry's spine and presses, through his jeans, on where the base of the plug is sitting, moving it again.

Harry scrabbles his hands on Sirius' shoulders as he feels his knees go weak.

'Got you,' Sirius murmurs into his ear, triumphant. He isn't relenting, fingers pushing, pressing, rolling the plug so that Harry is panting and moaning against Sirius' neck from the feeling of it.

He lets out a stream of words, a mix of curses and pleading inarticulately for something—Sirius to stop, or go harder, or—before he hears something that makes him shake his head and kick Sirius in the shins to get him away:

Someone's throat clearing pointedly.

'Sirius, not here,' he pants, glancing over his godfather's shoulder at the wall. 'Phineas.'

Sirius goes still and lets out a groan, stepping away. He turns on his heel to look at the painting on the wall of his great-great grandfather. 'Can't you just—' he says, making a shooing motion, before noticing that the painting is, indeed, empty. 'Oh.'

'I can still _hear_ you,' comes Phineas's drawling voice from the empty frame. 'No one painted in a pair of earmuffs for me, so I must endure. Your godson, Sirius. Really?'

'Yeah, yeah, shut up, I know,' Sirius says, and turns to grab Harry again. But Harry has already taken advantage of the moment to slip behind the sliding bookshelf and into the next room.

He cannot run quite as quickly now, with his legs feeling shaky under him, but he still manages to duck out of Sirius' reach long enough to lead him back to the bedroom, where he climbs onto the sheets and lets himself be pinned to the mattress a moment later when Sirius catches up.

'You're killing me,' Sirius says, climbing onto the bed and nudging Harry's legs apart with his knees so that he can settle between them, hands on Harry's wrists, keeping him in place. 'Are you just trying to drive me crazy, sweet thing?'

'Yeah, obviously.' Happily, Harry lifts up his legs to wrap them around Sirius' hips. Sirius is sitting up, looking down at him with his narrow chest heaving.

'If I let you go, will you stay there while I get you undressed?' Sirius asks. It's a teasing question—he is certainly not holding Harry's wrists tight enough that Harry couldn't pull away if he wanted to.

'Maybe,' Harry answers, smirking up at him.

Leaning in, Sirius kisses him. Harry groans. Truthfully, he could live off Sirius' kisses; deep, consuming, honest. As he kisses him, Sirius rocks his hips forward. Even separated by several layers of clothes, the motion is enough that with the plug inside Harry, it breaks a keening, desperate sound out of him. Harry tightens his legs around Sirius, pulling him closer.

Satisfied, his godfather pulls back from the kiss and lets go of his hands. Harry doesn't move his hands from where Sirius has left them.

'How long have you been wearing it?' Sirius asks, rough-voiced, as he lowers his fingers to pull up Harry's shirt. He lets it get stuck around his armpits, rubbing the pads of his thumbs over Harry's nipples for several long moments as he looks curiously down at him.  
'Um.' Harry thinks. It's difficult, his body wanting to do nothing but arch up into Sirius' touch. 'I guess, a couple of hours?'

'How's it feel?'

' _Nngh_ ,' Harry answers. 'Good.' Then: 'Good. You'll feel better.'

Sirius grins. 'Arms up.'

Letting his shirt be pulled up over his head, Harry does his best to tighten the grip of his thighs enough to encourage Sirius to move against him. Sirius, however, seems to be focused on getting them both naked—the moment Harry's top has been thrown somewhere, he moves onto unbuttoning his own shirt, fingers fumbling slightly in his hurry.

But Harry isn't really too interested in rushing things along. Dropping his legs back onto the mattress, he squirms away when Sirius reaches down to tug at the loose belt of his jeans.

'Oh, come here,' Sirius says, sounding slightly frustrated. He grabs Harry by the thighs and pulls him closer, but Harry just twists and pulls away again, swatting at his hands. 'What, have you gotten shy all of a sudden?'

'Yes,' Harry lies. He laughs when Sirius grabs his hips in another attempt to get him where he wants him. 'Daddy, stop manhandling me.'

'If you would stop moving—'

'I'm just trying to—' Harry finally gets out of Sirius' grip and sits up on his knees in the middle of the bed. Sirius is on all fours in front of him, clearly readying himself to pin Harry down again; but Harry's sure as hell not having any of that. Feeling a bit like a wrestler, he ducks forward and grabs his godfather by the waist and the shoulder, rolling him onto his back so that he can settle down on top.

Sirius groans out Harry's name in a long, drawn out whine and says: 'Stop teasing, I want to see your arse.'

'What's the rush?'

'I'm old and I'm going to die soon?'

Harry snorts, ignores him, and reaches down to unzip his godfather's jeans. Biting down on his tongue, he tugs Sirius' pants down until he can get a hand around his hard prick and then simply looks down at Sirius for a long moment.

'Well?' Sirius prompts him.

'I'm thinking,' Harry says. Slowly, he squeezes his hand on Sirius' dick and strokes up and down, once. This elicits a pleasant shiver and moan from beneath him, and Sirius reaches down so that his hand closes around Harry's as though to guide him. A pretty concerning thought has just occurred to Harry, but he'd rather not share it with Sirius right now. There's not really anything to be done about it, but if he can get his godfather to snap and fuck the brains out of him, that would be a pretty good distraction. 'I am more than capable of wanking you off on my own, you know. I don't need you holding my hand.'

'Apparently not,' Sirius counters. 'Since you're not _doing_ anything.'

Harry shrugs sweetly. 'I'll do anything you want, daddy,' he says.

'Get undressed, and come and sit on my—'

'Nah.'

Sirius throws both his hands up in the air in aggravation, before dropping them down onto his face. 'Fine, wank me off,' he says, muffled.

'Of course,' Harry says brightly. 'Anything.'

Harry takes his time with this, teasing Sirius slowly, just with his hands. After a while, Sirius drops his hands from his face so that he can look at Harry, mouth slack. Soon he pushes himself up so that he is sitting and he can kiss Harry, kiss him while he does this, pant into his mouth, moan, mumble praise until Harry is drowning in it. Then, finally, he falls back onto the bed and stammers, 'Fuck, oh fuck, yes, Harry, yes, stop, shit, fuck—' until Harry pulls his hand away right when Sirius is about to come and leaves him jerking his hips up against nothing.

'Better get these off,' Harry says, glancing down at Sirius' jeans, which are still stuck halfway down his thighs. He shuffles down the bed and tugs them off—without much help from Sirius, who is still breathing harshly and biting down on his knuckles. Once Sirius is completely naked, Harry crawls up the bed to lie down next to him.

Smiling, Harry drops his hand down to fiddle with the buttons on his own trousers. He's probably made Sirius wait almost long enough. And besides, his whole body feels so absolutely consumed by dull, aching arousal now that he's honestly not sure how much longer he can keep his head together.

But Sirius grabs his wrist—properly this time—and growls as he rolls Harry onto his back. Harry gasps. ' _Sirius_ ,' he moans, arousal jolting through him.

'That's it,' Sirius says, free hand going down to pull at Harry's jeans. 'Hips.'

Obediently, Harry raises his hips, earning himself a sharp nip to the shoulder even as Sirius roughly pulls Harry's clothes away. 'Ow!' Harry yelps, but it doesn't come out sounding much like an objection. In honesty, it's not.

Sirius does not nip him again though. He sits up, letting Harry's wrist go only so that he can finish pulling off Harry's clothes and move his hands up under Harry's knees to spread his legs apart.

Harry's hard cock twitches at the deep groan Sirius lets out.

'Merlin,' Sirius mutters. 'Keep your legs up.' He slips one hand, one finger, down between Harry's legs to press against that little midnight jewel at the base of the plug. Sirius pushes it and Harry's hips jerk at the movement.

His legs are shaking slightly, but he does keep them raised up as Sirius requested, feeling quite exposed. He is half expected Sirius to rush this—pull out the plug in one fast movement and fuck Harry hard and rough. Not that he would mind that, at all. It's almost what he has been hoping for.

But what he gets is even better; Sirius holding the base of the plug and pulling at it so that Harry can feel his arse stretching around the wider parts of the toy—then pushing it back in, tilting it, rocking it, and, somewhere in all of this, reaching up to loosely grip Harry's cock so that he can only writhe and moan and tremble through the sensations.

'You're so gorgeous like this,' Sirius murmurs as he pulls at the plug again. 'Squeeze.'

Harry does, his arse gripping the smooth plastic of the plug, trying to pull it back in. Sirius groans. 'See,' he says. 'That's what I'm talking about. Most beautiful fucking thing I've ever seen. Oh baby boy, want you gripping my dick like that.'

' _Yes_ ,' Harry begs.

Sirius pushes the toy back in. 'Yes?'

Harry nods his head vigorously. 'Yes, yes, yes. Now.'

'Alright,' Sirius says, and tugs at the plug. He pulls slowly, but pulls it this time until it slips all the way out, leaving Harry's arse clenching against nothing.

He whines at the loss.

'You still wet in there, sweetheart?' Sirius asks, fingers slipping forward to press against Harry's hole. Harry can tell that yes, yes he is still wet in there. He can feel an almost uncomfortable amount of lube slipping out of him onto Sirius' fingers—and then he can feel Sirius pushing it back in, slipping his fingers into Harry's loose hole. But Sirius hums and says, 'Maybe just a bit more...'

Then, once Sirius is satisfied with the frankly exorbitant amount of lube in Harry's arse, he moves up the bed so that he is level with Harry and pulls him into a rough kiss. If this is how Sirius is going to kiss him after he teases him a little, Harry thinks, maybe he ought to do it all the time. It is a deep, savage kiss, full of tongue and biting and Sirius grabbing Harry's legs so that they are pinned wide and Sirius can get between them, and then:

Harry can feel Sirius' cock lining up with his hole and he thinks (maybe stupidly) that this might be a good time to mess with Sirius one more time.

Just as Sirius is about to push inside Harry wriggles away, feet planted on Sirius' hips and holding him off.

But Sirius' free hand has found Harry's throat —

'No,' he hisses. 'I've waited too long —'

The fingers tighten, Harry chokes, his glasses askew.

A bolt of arousal shoots through Harry and instead of pushing Sirius away, he wraps his legs around his hips and pulls him in; and Sirius is pushing inside and it's perfect, that feeling of perfect fullness is back, and Harry can barely breathe and he loves it.

Sirius seems to realise that his hand is on Harry's throat several seconds after it has happened and jerks his hand away as though burned with a quick, shaky, 'Sorry, baby, sorry.'

But Harry just grabs his hand again, bringing it back up to his own neck. 'No, daddy, please...' he manages, between panted moans as Sirius thrusts roughly into him. 'It's good. Not too hard, I—'

Sirius' eyes are wide, black pools of lust, fixed on his and, slowly, he wraps his fingers back around Harry's throat. The cool press from some of Sirius' heavy rings provides a sharp contrast to the rest of Harry's body, which is hot, sweaty, burning all through. Sirius doesn't squeeze, not really. His hand just stays there as he fucks Harry ( _hard_ ), and occasionally his fingers tighten, almost immeasurably, and in those moments the pleasure in Harry's body seems to sear through him like fiendfyre.

Neither of them are going to last long, Harry knows this. But it doesn't matter. It's good—maddeningly good—and all he can think is that he loves this, loves Sirius, and he's not going to cope if he can't have this every single day _forever_.

Between the almost ferocious fucking and the hand on his throat, Sirius must be having similarly tender thoughts, because just as Harry is about to open his mouth to gasp out something disgustingly soppy and sweet, he cuts him off with a gentle kiss (a gentle kiss even has his hips snap forward almost hard enough to bruise, the sound of skin slapping on skin filling the room) and says, 'You're perfect, Harry. Fuck, you're perfect. Love you so much.'

Then his fingers tighten again, harder this time, and Harry can't get out words. He can only nod, gasp for air, and then forget about everything other than the sudden wave of pleasure crashing through him. He doesn't even realise he is coming until he's halfway through spilling all over his and Sirius' stomachs where they are pressed together, and then Sirius' hand loosens on this throat and Harry hears himself shouting out wordless sounds, hoarse and broken. His whole body shakes through it, and he digs his fingernails into Sirius' shoulders until he is finally mostly just sobbing out moans, overstimulated, as Sirius groans, long and deep, buries his face in neck, and follows him over the edge.

Much like his orgasm, Harry doesn't realise he is laughing as he comes down until he is already vibrating with it, half silent, with Sirius slumped on top of him. He feels Sirius snort against his neck, a huff of warm air, and then Sirius is laughing too—a warm, full bodied thing.

'That was _good_ ,' Harry mumbles into his godfather's skin.

‘That was dumb,’ Sirius corrects, amused. ‘You are a menace. You're worse than…’ 

Harry lets the moment hang in the air, trying to catch his breath, his chest rising and falling. 

Sirius doesn’t finish his sentence. 

*

Harry can feel from the way that Sirius is breathing that he isn't asleep, and he is pretty sure Sirius can similarly tell Harry is still awake. They are both doing a pretty good job of pretending, though. Harry is lying face down on the bed, head buried in his arms, and Sirius is mostly just sprawled across his back, one leg nudged between Harry's and his head nestled between Harry's shoulder blades. Every now and again, Harry feels the blink of eyelashes against his skin, telling him that his godfather's eyes are still open.

He feels boneless and more than ready to sleep. He would probably be conked out, if it weren't for the concerns swirling in his head since he and Sirius got caught by the portrait of Phineas. For a moment, it had amused Harry. Undermining Phineas Nigellus' dignity is something he is pretty well practiced at, really.

However, once it occurred to him exactly _where_ the elder Black's other portrait is located, that vague amusement had tightened into concern.

Harry knows that he should probably tell someone about what he and Sirius have been doing. They can't hide it forever, and they probably shouldn't. Not if they are, well, in love. Which is, at the moment, appearing to be the case. Or it has always been the case, maybe.

But of the people Harry wants finding out that he has taken on his godfather as his secret, illicit lover, Professor McGonagall is pretty bloody low on the list. He can think of a few people who would be potentially worse. Rita Skeeter, right at the bottom of the list. Pansy Parkinson. She had always been a mean gossip mill, hadn't she?

He isn't sure what McGonagall would do about it if Phineas told her. She isn't the sort to assert any measure of authority over adult ex-students. But would she tell anyone? Would she want to talk to them? Would she frown really, really, really tightly?

Frowning, Harry tries to imagine scenarios. In his mind, all the outcomes of McGonagall finding out involve him and Sirius being summoned to the Headmistress's office and being scolded like children. He is, in fact, just starting to drift off into something like a dream—or nightmare—where this is the case, when he feels Sirius shift and murmur, 'Harry?'

His eyes feel heavy. He tries to open them, but can't, so he just mumbles, 'Mm?' into the pillow.

'Can I ask you something?'

'Mm.' Harry forces himself to blink, trying not to fall asleep. 'Wha'sis'it?'

'About your dad...' Sirius draws in a breath. 'You know how we were...?'

This wakes Harry up. Pushing himself up slightly, he tries to roll over, but Sirius just wraps his arms around his middle to hold him in place and kisses the nape of his neck. 'How you were in love with him?'

Sirius makes a soft noise that sounds a little bit like a low whine. 'Yeah. And he would, how we would… together, sometimes.'

'Uh huh...'

'Harry, you don't worry that I'm just, replacing James with you, do you? I'm not just substituting you in.'

At this, Harry forces Sirius to let him roll over so he can look at him. Sirius doesn't really move, so that instead of lying on Harry's back he's now leaning on his chest, looking concerned. 'Sirius,' Harry murmurs. 'Yeah, you are.'

Sirius' eyes go wide. 'No, I—'

'I know it isn't the answer you want to hear,' Harry says. 'But you are. You loved my dad, and now you love me instead because I look like him and I, I remind you of him.'

' _No_ ,' Sirius says forcefully. 'I can tell the difference between you and your father, Harry.'

'Of course you can, you're not touched in the head.'

'Then what—'

'You just see him in me. You've said it before. I don't see why that has to be a bad thing.'

'It's weird.'

Harry shrugs. 'Yeah. A lot of things are weird.'

'I don't want you thinking that,' Sirius replies, frowning. 'I want you to know that I love you for who _you_ are.'

'I do know that,' Harry says. 'When we first met, when I found out you were my godfather and what you had meant to my mum and dad, it felt like getting a part of them back. Like, a big gap inside me was getting, I dunno, patched up or something.' Pausing, Harry strokes Sirius' hair out of his face so that he can look at him. In the low light, he seems very unsure, dark eyes worried. 'And I know you, and I think you're alright. Does it make it _less_ that I like you for both things?'

Sirius makes a low noise, not quite agreement or disagreement, and looks down at Harry's chest. After a long pause, he says, 'You're very different to James.'

Harry shifts, his stomach dropping a little. 'Er, okay?'

'It's a good thing. I was thinking… Nah, I shouldn’t say this.'

‘Tell me.’ 

‘Just… just that there’s some other way that everything— _everything_ —could have gone where it would be James where you are right now. And then I was thinking, you know, well that means that then you wouldn’t be here. And then it was just that I didn’t want that, at all. And now I feel bad, because it’s almost like… almost like saying I’m glad James is gone.’ With a sigh, Sirius lies down again properly with his arm slung around Harry's waist, fingers tracing shapes into his skin. 'M'sorry,' he mumbles. 'I better shut up. You were sleeping.'

Harry drops his head back onto the pillow. 'I get it,' he says. 'I'm sure there is a psychoanalyst out there who would love to get their hands on us.'

But despite everything Harry's last thoughts as he drifts off to sleep are warm ones, caught in Sirius' steady breaths against his neck and the rise and fall of his chest and, deeply, a feeling of being caught in a splinter of time where things might not be alright, but they're okay.


	14. Chapter 14

Hermione does not seem to notice Harry entering her office the following afternoon until he closes the door behind him, locking it tightly. She looks up at the sound, starts to say 'No, I'm staying late, don't—' before realising who it is and putting down her quill. 'Harry!'

'Hey,' he says, knowing his voice sounds off. He deliberately left this visit until as late as possible in the day, wanting to catch Hermione just before close of business so that he could steal her away from her work. 'Can I talk to you about something?'

He feels slightly sneaky, like he should have told Sirius he was coming here. But he needs this, some time alone with Hermione—someone clear headed and sensible who, well, who knows him and what he's like.

'Of course,' says Hermione. She glances at her work briefly, as though trying to decide whether to keep writing, but bites her lip and rolls it up, setting it aside. 'What's wrong?'

Hastily, Harry replies, 'Nothing!' which immediately feels like a dodge. He scratches his neck. 'I mean...'

'Sit down, Harry,' she tells him. 'You're looking very twitchy.'

He swallows nervously and does as she says, pulling out the chair and sitting in it. He wants to fiddle with something, the zipper on his hoodie, the little pot of ink on her desk. Just anything to have something to do with his hands. 'I might have done something,' he admits.

Hermione closes her eyes and lets out a long breath through her nose. She seems to be mentally preparing herself for whatever Harry is about to say. 'Whatever it is,' she says, 'we can work it out.'

'It's not anything bad, exactly,' Harry replies. He has been planning what to say to Hermione all day, ever since he decided that he needs to tell _someone_ , but now that it's actually time to get the words out, they seem to be stuck in his throat. 'It's Sirius,' he manages eventually.

Hermione nods. Her eyes are soft, but she is frowning. 'I thought you were getting over that,' she says.

'Yeah, no, not… not really.' Harry laughs a little, mostly at himself. 'Kind of really not, actually.'

'Oh, Harry,' Hermione whispers, which really, feels like it's just what she says every time. Oh, Harry, you're an idiot. Oh, Harry, what have you done? Oh, _Harry_. She raises her hand to her mouth, eyes going wide. 'You didn't tell him, did you?'

Clenching his fists in his lap, Harry shifts. 'Er...'

'You did?' Hermione blinks. 'You did. Okay. Okay. What did he… how did he react?'

'He took it well?' Harry tries, voice going an octave higher than usual. 'Really well.' Letting out a deep breath, Harry forces himself to get it out properly. 'This was a while back,' he says. 'Well. It was a while back that I snogged him, anyway. The first time.'

'The first… Harry, when was the most recent time you snogged him, then?'

Harry looks at his watch. 'Er, about an hour ago?'

Hermione makes a strangled noise and pushes back her chair to stand up. She runs her fingers through her hair, pulling it up. 'Oh...'

'The first time was like a month and a half ago, or something.' He watches Hermione walking back and forth on the other side of the desk, bites the inside of his lip and adds, 'We are kind of, um. Seeing each other.'

'No,' she says briskly, sounding annoyed. '"Seeing each other" is meeting someone and going on a few dates. You're—' She cuts herself off and reaches for the little pot above her office fireplace. 'We need Ron.'

'No!' Harry says, but Hermione is already pulling out a pinch of floo powder and throwing it at the fireplace. 'Can't we just, you and me, first? I’ll tell Ron later. He's going to think it's weird.'

But Hermione is ignoring him, calling out into the fireplace, 'Ron, can you come here? I've got Harry and he's done something stupid.'

A few moments later, the fire burns bright and Ron's tall, lanky figure swirls in it for a few moments before he steps out, brushing soot out of his hair and glances between Harry and Hermione. 'You in trouble, then?' he asks Harry, bemused.

Harry buries his face in both hands and slumps forward onto the desk, but Hermione jabs him hard in the shoulder, forcing him to look up again.

'Would you tell Ron what you just told me?' she asks.

Harry hesitates—but having said it once, he feels more ready to say it a second time. And anyway, Ron is going to know eventually. 'It's really not that bad,' he starts. And then, starting from the top, he tells them both everything.

Well. Not quite everything. He tells them about the gifts, since that's probably where it started. He tells them about realising he was attracted to Sirius. He tells them about testing the waters and the slow, steady realisation that Sirius wanted him back. He tells them about the guilt, the feeling that he was taking apart the closest thing he's ever had to a familial relationship—and he tells them about being with Sirius and realising that it feels _right_ , that all the love he has always had for his godfather is a shifting, malleable thing and he loves him in every way he can and every way that he probably shouldn't, and that Sirius loves him back.

He doesn't tell them about the daddy thing. Or the… details.

Neither Ron or Hermione interrupts him as he talks, and once it starts, Harry feels like he is purging this all from inside him. Getting it out, he realises how tightly he has been holding this inside him—insisting that it is something _private_ , for him and Sirius only. But telling Ron and Hermione feels like making it true. The moment they are in the air, every word solidifies into something real until he is rushing and stumbling over his words in his hurry to get them out.

His friends’ faces change as they listen. Ron's eyes get wider and wider until his eyebrows almost reach his hairline, and at some point his jaw drops and the colour drains from his face so that he is left just gaping at Harry. Hermione, however, seems to soften as Harry talks. A small wrinkle appears between her eyebrows, but other than that, her face remains mostly impassive, only the slightest trace of a frown on her lips which occasionally quirks into something like a smile.

Finally, Harry says, 'And yesterday he left a butt plug on my pillow by mistake, bought me this watch, Phineas Nigellus caught us um, you know, and I love him. Er. That's it. I think.'

He waits for a long moment as Ron continues to gawk at him and Hermione licks her lips, opens her mouth and closes it again.

'Say something,' Harry prompts eventually, uncomfortable.

' _What in the name of Merlin's great soggy, soiled pants is going on_?' Ron says, softly but with a lot of feeling: then louder, 'Harry, what the fuck!'

'Ron...' Hermione says, reaching out to take his hand and quiet him.

But Ron continues. 'Harry, you are shagging your _godfather_. He's your _family_.'

'No, it's not,' Harry starts quickly, stammering slightly. 'It's not like that—'

'No, it is. He's been your legal guardian since you were thirteen! He knew you as a baby! He probably changed your diapers—'

'I don't think he did, he doesn't like babies that much,' Harry says, but Ron ignores him.

'What about when you were in school? Was he just, waiting for you to become an adult so he could—'

' _No!_ ' Harry shoots back sharply, then—remembering he is technically in the Ministry of Magic—lowers his voice. 'What the hell are you implying, Ron? That he's some kind of—'

'It's not like this sort of thing just comes out of nowhere, mate. I know Sirius. I know he's not a bad bloke. But I'm just saying, if he has no problem doing this now, I have trouble believing there wasn't even something _slightly_ weird going on in his head when you were, what, like fifteen or sixteen. I remember you two back then. You were obsessed with each other. And it was fine, because you were like family, but, but Harry—this puts a whole different spin on it.'

Harry can feel his temper rising. 'So what if it does!' he says, throwing his hands in the air. 'He never did anything.'

'Ron,' Hermione says gently. 'I think you're being a bit harsh on Sirius.'

'Am I? You're the one who used to think he couldn't tell Harry and James apart. Maybe you were right. We don't know—maybe Sirius used to fancy Harry's dad or something, and he just pushed that all onto Harry...'

'Er, we do know, actually,' Harry interrupts. 'He, um, did. They used to hook up.'

Ron gestures wildly, pointing at Harry. 'See?!'

Hermione frowns. 'That's not… good, Harry.'

'I don't see why it has to be a bad thing,' Harry says, but trying to explain it to Ron and Hermione seems weaker than reassuring Sirius last night.

'A bad...' Hermione repeats faintly. 'Harry, just, just throwing this out there… but how would you feel if Sirius accidentally called you your father's name in bed?'

Cheeks burning fiercely, Harry looks down at his hands and mumbles, 'Um, that—yeah, that's happened. I didn't mind.'

'You didn't _mind_ ,' Ron shouts, appalled—and Hermione quickly hushes him. With effort, Ron lowers his voice and hisses, 'Harry, that's like if Hermione called me "Arthur" in bed.' The words seem to get caught on his tongue, and his face goes even paler and he makes a retching expression. 'Ugh, see? I can't even say that. Eugh!'

However, just about as Harry is about to (vehemently) object, Hermione calmly says, 'Well, no, it's not quite like that.' She purses her lips and gives Harry a scrutinising look. 'I mean, not just because Sirius knew Harry's dad for a very long time, obviously. And also, slept with him, apparently. But, Ron—I think you are thinking of this as though it's your family. And if this was your family, yes, it would be very weird. Even the people who aren't technically blood relatives in your family, like godparents and, well, _Harry_ , are just treated the same as everyone else. But Harry never knew his mum and dad, not properly.' She looks at Harry apologetically. 'They're probably not much more than abstract concepts to you, are they?'

Harry pauses, furrowing his brows. Something aches in his chest at the thought of admitting it, like it is a betrayal to their memory, but still—Hermione isn't wrong. 'I suppose so,' he mutters.

'And Sirius, as much as he loved them, has been without them for longer than they ever had together. And he has been through some pretty harrowing experiences between then and now. James is probably almost as much an ideal to him as he is to you, Harry, at this point. And I don't say this to mean it makes everything fine, but it adds some context.'

Harry doesn't say anything. Anger is coiling inside him, a feeling of betrayal at Ron's reaction and irritation at Hermione for getting him involved before he could _explain_. They don't understand. It is not the way they think it is. Sirius isn't a creep and he, Harry, isn't wrong for feeling that Sirius' love for his father doesn't tarnish his love for _him_. Is he?

'You haven't done anything wrong,' Hermione says to him. Ron splutters, and Harry snorts.

'It kinda sounds like you're telling me I've done a lot of things wrong,' he mutters moodily.

'It might just be, um, a mistake.'

Harry huffs. 'Right.'

'I think we're questioning Sirius' motivations, not yours,' she adds.

Finally looking up from his hands, Harry gives her a skeptical look and slumps back in his chair. 'Well, I wish you wouldn't.'

Hermione smiles wryly. 'And also, again I say this without any blame or judgement, but—he's not very good at saying no to you, is he?'

Harry stands up. 'So which is it, then? He's been grooming me since I was thirteen, or I'm coercing him into this?'

'Neither!' Hermione says. 'Or, I don't know. We don't know, Harry! We're just worried about you.'

'You're quiet,' Harry snaps at Ron, since he hasn't said anything for a while. 'Trying to think up more things to accuse me of?'

'No,' Ron says, some of the colour returning to his cheeks. 'I was just… well, what's it like?'

'What's what like?'

Ron jerks a shoulder. 'I dunno. Being with a guy. Being with Sirius?'

' _Ron_ ,' Hermione interjects.

'I'm curious!'

Harry gives Ron a long look which breaks into a lopsided smile and he drops down into his seat again. He knows Ron doesn't really like big changes like this all that much, and—even with his prior words—if he's already moving onto asking probing questions, that feels like relief. With a quick, blushing glance at Hermione, Harry replies, 'It's really good.'

'Is it weird with him being so old?'

'He's forty-one, Ron. He's not an octogenarian.'

'Yeah, but like...' Ron leans in. 'Does he even want to do it that much? Does he have the energy?'

Harry laughs. 'Yes. God, yes. He probably wants to go more than I do some of the time.'

'Eugh!' Ron says, but shifts closer, grinning. 'What about like, the other stuff? I dunno how it works. Do you, you know, _take it_ or does he? It's gotta be you, right? No offense, Harry. You're just very… uh… petite.'

Harry feels his cheeks grow warmer. 'Er, we both do? I… I dunno, just whatever, you know? I'm not really fussy. He's a bit fussy. He really likes being on the, um, receiving end, most of the time.'

' _Really_?' Ron says, surprised, and is just opening his mouth to ask something else when Hermione cuts him off.

'As enlightening as this is,' she says, 'I think we really ought to leave some things a mystery. Harry. Have you and Sirius talked about this stuff with your dad?'

'Um, yes.'

'In detail?'

'I think so.'

'Alright.' She takes a deep breath. 'I mean, if that is out in the open, that's probably—the most immediately concerning thing covered… And then, I suppose the most important thing is just, Harry, are you happy?'

' _Yes_ ,' Harry says sincerely. 'Nothing has ever, before—I don't remember feeling as happy as this before.'

Hermione smiles. 'That's good. I'm sorry, Harry, I don't want you to feel like we were attacking you. It's just, um, a surprise.'

'Yeah, it is,' Ron says faintly; but he no longer looks pallid and horrified. 'Harry, your taste, eh?'

Sheepishly, Harry shrugs.

'And is Sirius happy?' Hermione adds.

'He seems to be,' Harry answers.

'I'm glad. He's been lonely a long time.'

'So, that's it, we're just accepting this then?' Ron asks, slightly hesitantly. 'I mean, really mate. I'm happy it's good for you, but Merlin. What are Christmas dinners going to be like? Mum's going to pitch a fit if you two, what? Get married?'

Harry winces. 'I really don't think—I have no plans to propose. That's not our… thing.' He pauses. 'And I mean, if you can keep it quiet from your mum, I'd be...'

'We can for now, sure, but if you and Sirius are for good, it's not going to stay secret forever.'

'No, I know.' Harry takes a deep breath. 'Should we leave the office? We can go get dinner. I think I've, I dunno. Done my dash on this today.'

'Yes, absolutely,' Hermione replies, standing up. 'We'll go to yours, Harry, and talk to Sirius.'

'That's not what he wants, love,' Ron interrupts. 'Let's just go to a pub for a bit, yeah?'

Harry is immensely relieved by Ron's suggestion. He feels exhausted and raw from talking this all through, but also lighter. His friends may be unconvinced, but they're still here. That's what matters.

Although slightly hesitant, Hermione agrees to a quiet dinner at a muggle pub down the street, where they talk about other things for a while. One of the other trainee aurors managed to Polyjuice himself into a half-man half-fly in a freak accident, and Ron tells the story over a couple of pints. Hermione talks about work, at length, and by the time he's finished his pie and chips and a couple of beers, Harry is feeling positively relaxed.

'I'd still like to come by for a little while,' Hermione says as they are leaving, pulling on her coat. 'Just to check in with both of you together.'

'Yeah, fine,' Harry says.

However, when they get to Grimmauld Place and Harry unlocks the front door, the three of them stepping inside, they are met with an unexpected sight and all freeze in place.

Remus and Sirius are in the downstairs living area. Sirius—as a large black dog—is stretched out on the floor with his head between his paws. Remus is also sitting on the floor, his back against the arm of the couch, pinching the bridge of his nose as though he has a headache, his eyes shut. He opens them as he hears them approach.

'Harry,' he says hoarsely, sounding relieved. 'You're home.'

'Are you guys alright?' Harry asks, confused. As he speaks, Sirius whines in the back of his throat and crawls across the floor toward him, not standing up properly. 'Why are you a dog?' he adds to Sirius.

'He’s avoiding talking to me,' Remus says tiredly. He glances between Ron and Hermione, biting his lip. 'Sirius just… revealed something to me,' he adds. 'May I speak to you in private, Harry?'

'Oh, we know,' Ron says. 'If this is about the two of them shagging. We know.'

On the floor, Sirius whines and shifts in a little circle, body still close to the ground. He puts one paw over his snout and blinks up at Harry with wide, grey eyes.

'You're being an idiot,' Remus says. 'That guilty dog act doesn't work with any of us. Harry. A word.'

Taking Harry by the arm, Remus leads him out of the living room and into the hallway and then—with a quick glance behind him, up the stairs and into the drawing room. Harry follows, feeling a little sheepish. He's already gone through one long, probing conversation about his relationship today. He isn't sure he is ready for another. Particularly not if Remus is just _worried about him_ as well.

But once they make it to the drawing room and Remus shuts the door behind them, he seems more fidgety and nervous than anything. He scratches at his unshaven neck, tugs the sleeves of his overly long cardigan and lets out a sigh.

'So...' Harry says. 'I'm guessing Sirius told you about us.'

'He did.' Remus smiles wryly, giving Harry a knowing look. 'Quite scandalous, Harry. Well done.'

Harry scowls. 'I'm not trying to be scandalous.'

'I know. I can't say I know too much of the situation. Sirius got as far as telling me that the two of you have been, ah, sleeping together before, I believe, deciding my expression was a bit too stormy and deciding to transform to avoid facing my terrifying wrath.' He says it very dryly, and Harry grins weakly at him.

'He does do that.'

'It's a habit, yes. So you see, I might not have the full picture. But I did get the impression this is as much your initiative as his?'

'Maybe more!' Harry says quickly, wanting to head off any further accusations against Sirius of him taking advantage of Harry. 'Honestly I've been, er, making it pretty clear what I wanted for a while.'

'Hm.' Remus, rather than reassured, sounds less pleased by the situation at Harry's words. But his expression is still nothing like the abject horror of Ron's earlier, or the sympathetic exasperation of Hermione's. 'Well, that's very… interesting. Harry, there is something I need to tell you.'

Harry blinks. 'Oh?' he prompts, unsure what to expect. Remus still seems very concerned and on edge. He is meeting Harry's eyes, but occasionally glances past his shoulder as though checking they won't be overheard.

'It's about Sirius and your dad,' Remus says finally. 'And how they weren't… always simply friends.'

'Oh!' Harry breathes out a sigh of relief, relaxing. 'Yeah! Yeah, I know.'

Remus' eyebrows raise and the corners of his mouth twitch down. 'You know?'

'Sirius told me,' Harry says. 'Sort of. I had kind of already guessed, honestly. We've talked about it, it's fine.'

'What exactly did he tell you?' Remus asks, sounding unconvinced.

'Uhh, that he used to be in love with my dad. And they would sometimes, you know, hook up or shag or whatever.'

Letting out a dry laugh, Remus rubs his temple with two fingers. 'I suppose that's one way to put it.'

'What? Was it not like that?'

'Oh, no, it definitely was. I feel like there are some adjectives missing. For instance, it would be more accurate to say that Sirius was _hopelessly_ in love with James. And probably a better description of their relationship would be to say that they had an ongoing, shall we say, "friends-with-benefits" situation for six or seven years—and Sirius always desperately wanted more.'

'O…kay...' Harry says, unsure where this is going.

Remus' voice seems a little bitter as he talks. 'Harry, you need to understand. I was there for every time your dad messed around with Sirius and—although I don't think he would ever admit to it—Sirius always felt, ah, used afterwards. Heartbroken? He kept doing it to himself, of course. He thought it was what he wanted, he thought he didn't need more from James. But it hurt him more than I think he realises, even now.'

With a feeling like ice slipping down his spine, Harry’s heart sinks and he drops into the chair next to where he is standing. He frowns, looking down at the floor. 'I didn't know that bit,' he says. 'Shit, my dad really was a bit of a tosser, wasn't he?'

'No,' Remus replies firmly. 'No, that's not it at all.' He takes a deep breath, sitting down opposite Harry, elbows on his knees. 'Your dad did love Sirius. He gave Sirius every part of himself that he could. He would have poured himself into him if he had been able. He tried to give Sirius everything. But… it's hard to explain. It was never right for either of them. James was never interested in Sirius romantically, and Sirius could never be satisfied with having every part of James except that. But they were both trying their best.'

Harry feels his mouth twist. 'That's still not right,' he says. 'If he didn't love him, he shouldn't have… led him on like that.'

'I'm glad you agree,' Remus says, his mouth finally twitching into a smile. 'Harry, Sirius is obviously very important to me. He is my longest and dearest friend. But you are young, and you are the priority here. So I have to ask: is this what you want?'

'Yes,' Harry replies with conviction.

'Good.' Remus' eyes darken. 'In that case, I can step into my role as Sirius' best friend and say this very clearly. If you are going to do to Sirius' what James did to him, I implore you to stop now. I understand if you are… experimenting, and Sirius is available. He is always very keen like that. It is easy to get carried away. But I know him, and if you use him and cannot return his feelings, it will break him. And I would rather not pick up those pieces again.' 

Harry goes cold again. 'No,' he says quickly. 'No! I wouldn't—that's not—' He shakes his head. 'I'm not just messing around with him, I wouldn't _do_ that.' Looking Remus dead in the eyes, he says: 'I'm in love with him.'

Remus stares back for a long moment, almost as though trying to read any hesitation in Harry's expression. Then he claps once, stands up, and says, 'Wonderful.'

Harry startles. 'Er, that's it?'

'Well, that's all I wanted to say for now,' Remus replies lightly. 'I'm sure there are plenty of others who will interrogate you both extensively when they find out. Myself, if you are happy and have no intentions to string each other along for years in a painful tug of war which leaves yourself and others in your wake exhausted and heartbroken, then I'm perfectly content to let you have at it.' He smirks at Harry as he wanders past him to the door, holding it open. 'The writing has been on the wall, Harry. I'm not exactly surprised.'

Harry stands up slowly, still feeling unsettled. 'Wait, I...'

'Yes?'

'I want to know more about my dad and Sirius. You said six years? How is that—' He does some mental mathematics, counting back in his head from the age his father was when he, Harry, was born. 'That's too long, unless...'

'Hm? Oh, well you would be best to talk to Sirius, really.' Remus cards his fingers through his hair, not meeting Harry's eyes. 'I'd honestly rather not discuss it in too much detail, right now.' He cocks his head, hurrying Harry along. 'Come on now, let's see if we can't find Sirius some pants and convince him to turn back into a person now that he should know he is not in trouble.'

Remus, Hermione and Ron all end up staying for tea, and Tonks comes over too with Teddy. Although Remus doesn't say anything to her about Harry and Sirius, Harry gets the distinct impression she somehow knows anyway, from her sly looks and occasional winks. Sirius turns back into himself only when Remus and Tonks suggest getting some dinner since, unlike Harry, Ron and Hermione, they have not eaten. He ends up hurrying out of the house to get takeaway with hardly a word to any of them, cheeks flushing.

'He really doesn't like talking about these things, does he?' Ron says, slightly baffled.

'He learned a long time ago that he could put off acknowledging his feelings or facing any consequences by turning into a dog,' Remus replies, pulling out a few beers from the fridge and uncapping them. 'He has gotten better about it, but unfortunately he does it more with me than anyone else because it's a habit.' He smiles. 'It helps that he is a very lovely dog.'

But Sirius does eventually come back with several plastic bags full of food and unpacks them onto the dining room table, talking about nothing much in particular but talking about it very loudly. He sits at the table with Remus and Tonks to eat, while Harry, Ron and Hermione play with Teddy at the far end of the room, and slowly, he seems to relax. The conversation stays easy, neutral—and Harry manages to catch his godfather’s eye. 

It’s a moment of silent communication. There’s something apologetic in Sirius’ expression, and Harry gets it. They both invited this in today, unexpectedly. Harry by telling his friends, Sirius by telling Remus, and maybe they should have talked about it first. Harry hadn’t quite anticipated this. He had planned to be able to talk things out with Hermione first and then come back home and discuss it with Sirius before the circle expanded any wider. 

But, he realises, he’s not sorry it played out this way. He tries to tell Sirius this silently, but he’s not sure he gets the nuance across as well as he would like, because Sirius still kind of looks like he’s screaming internally. 

After dinner, there seems to be a general hesitance from Hermione and Remus in particular to depart—as though leaving Harry and Sirius alone together is asking for trouble. Which maybe it is, but it's still a little patronising. Harry shuffles everyone into the living room rather than the dining room and summons some tea and biscuits. He settles himself down on the sofa close to Sirius, glaring at them all and daring them to object. Sirius spreads his arms across the back of the chair and his fingers come up to play with the back of Harry's hair almost unconsciously when Harry folds his legs up under him.

Ron seems to choke slightly on his jammie dodger.

But finally, no one can find an excuse to stay and when Teddy starts to get overtired and upset, Remus picks him up, hushes him gently and everyone starts to move toward the fire to floo home.

Hermione leaves last, following after Ron who says goodbye slightly uncomfortably, not quite meeting either Harry or Sirius’ eyes but just waving over his shoulder and stepping into the swirling flames. However, Hermione pulls Harry into a tight hug before flooing away. 

‘Alright?’ he asks into her hair, wrapping his arms in turn around her back. 

‘Sorry if it felt like we were telling you off,’ she murmurs. ‘Just look after yourself.’ 

‘I am.’

She lets him go, steps back and nods at Sirius. ‘Well,’ she says in a voice that sounds a lot like she’s holding back further interrogation with effort. ‘Goodnight.’ Then she throws a handful of powder into the flames, walks into the hearth and vanishes. 

Harry watches the flames flare and die down for a long moment, before turning around. 

'Sirius,' he says, stepping away from the fireplace. 'Can I ask you about something?'

The look Sirius gets in his eye seems like he is strongly considering turning back into a dog. Harry understands. He has had quite enough talking about his feelings today as well—but he needs to get just a little bit more out in the open.

'Remus told me some things about you and my dad.'

'You can never trust a werewolf' Sirius says wryly. 'Let me guess. Something something James was terrible for me, something something tore my heart into pieces, something something stringing us both along for years?'

'Yeah, that's the gist.' Harry wanders over and sits down next to him. He crosses his legs on the couch and turns to face Sirius. 'We can talk about it, if you want.'

Sirius glances at him, rubbing the heel of his hand over his eyes tiredly. 'Do you want to talk about it?'

'Yes.' Harry frowns. 'I don't want to accidentally hurt you.'

The smile Sirius gives him looks like someone has caught a hook in the corner of his mouth and is pulling up. 'I don't think it's necessarily something we should…' A sigh. 'Honestly? By saying that, you're already miles ahead of Prongs in terms of… everything. I said the other night that you're different to your dad. You want to know why?'

'I don't know. Do I?'

'Probably not. Maybe. I dunno. The difference between you and James is that you want me back. James… he only ever had eyes for Lily.'

Harry doesn't quite know what to say to that, so he just says, 'Oh.' It's a weird, twisting feeling inside him. His father had never loved anyone except his mother. That feels like warmth, like comfort, like home. Like the distant, barely-there, mostly imagined memories he has of when he was a baby and they were a family. But also… 'I can't believe I'm kind of angry at my dad for not, I dunno, falling in love with you.'

Sirius snorts. 'If James had felt the way about me I did about him, you'd never have been born.'

'Yeah, no, I get that,' Harry says, furrowing his eyebrows. He bites his thumbnail and squints down at the patterning on his socks, thinking. 'It's just… you know. I don't like to think of him hurting you. You were best friends.'

'We _were_ best friends,' Sirius says emphatically. 'Look. Remus likes to talk up all this bullshit about heartbreak and love agony or what have you, but… Okay, can I tell you something? Those years in Azkaban. I spent a lot of time resenting James and hating myself for all that time we spent, well. The person I loved had just died, it was my fault, he had never loved me back and I had a recording playing constantly in my mind of almost every time he touched me or looked at me—and the Dementors couldn't take them away because, as much as I cherished them, they hurt like cruciatus and they always had.' He pauses, his voice cracking. When he continues, he is barely rasping the words. 'But what you have to understand, Harry, is that moment I escaped, when I got out, when I had swum away from the Dementors and I was already half mad. It was like a flood. Every good moment we had spent together, every warm feeling, every part of that love we had for each other—even if it was different, even if it was incompatible—it all crashed down upon me and it was like I couldn't breathe for the joy of it. You have no idea.'

'Sirius, I'm sorr—'

Wiping shining eyes, Sirius shakes his head. 'Don't be mad at your dad, Harry,' he says, fiercely. 'I promise you, the good outweighed the shitty, complicated teenage feelings a hundred fold. Besides, it was my fault it always went on. I was usually the one coming up with some flimsy excuses for how funny it would be if we made out.'

Harry quirks a smile and reaches out to stroke Sirius' hair out of his face, wiping his thumb under his eye to dry a spot where a tear is threatening to fall. 'Remus made it sound a bit more dire than that,' he prompts gently.

'Yeah, well. Things escalated.' Sirius swallows, then rolls his eyes. 'Besides, Moony is just still a bit jealous about the whole thing. Stupid, really. He's the one who dumped _me_.'

Harry starts, pulling his hand away from Sirius' face. 'Wait, what?' He gapes at him. 'You and _Remus_?'

Sirius blinks. 'Uh, yeah? Obviously?' He laughs. 'Sweetheart, you knew about this.'

Harry laughs back, but not remotely amused. 'Er, _no_. I did not know about this! When the hell was this?'

Sirius takes a while to respond, mostly just staring at Harry in confusion, squinting at him as though wondering whether he is fucking with him. 'Well, I mean, we were on and off as kids… But we were, Harry, we were together for what? Like a year and a half? When you were in school.'

'YOU WERE WHAT?' Harry says loudly, running a hand through his hair and tugging at it. 'When? What? What?'

'When you were in fifth year, it would have been, mostly? Harry, you _knew_ about this.'

'I DID NOT.'

'He was here all the time!' Sirius shoots back, still half-laughing at the shock on Harry's face. 'We got you joint Christmas presents, Harry. It wasn't a secret.'

Harry just gawks at him.

'Are you serious?' Sirius says. 'This, _this_ , you find too weird?'

'I'm just...' Harry flails his hands. 'Surprised. It _is_ weird!'

'Weirder than the fact I used to fuck your dad?'

'Yes!'

'How on _earth_ is this weirder than that?'

'Okay!' Harry says, listing things off on his fingers. 'Things that are weird about this: He was my teacher! He's here all the time! He comes over once a month and you both turn into dogs and eat garbage together! And, really, he was my _teacher_!'

'James was your dad!'

'Yeah, but he wasn't my _teacher_!' Harry takes a deep breath, head spinning. 'I mean… I dunno, I'm not mad or anything. I'm just… for starters, why did he dump you?'

Sirius scratches his neck uncomfortably. 'He fell in love with Tonks,' he says, edgily.

'That's it?' Ron's words echo back to Harry across the years, something about anyone choosing Tonks when Fleur was around. Harry can't help but have a twinge of the same feeling, wondering how anyone could ever fall in love with someone else when they had _Sirius_.

'He said some other things,' Sirius mumbles. 'It doesn't matter now. It's been over a long time. We're just friends.' He gives Harry a cautious look. 'Is that… okay? We could stop doing garbage night if it would make you more comfortable?'

'Oh, could you?' Harry says dryly. 'I'd actually really like that. It's disgusting.'

'I mean, if you think it's… something? I dunno, if you feel weird about me and Remus hanging out like that.'

'Yeah, I definitely find it weird that you hang out and scarf down rotten food one night a month.'

'Harry, to be clear. I'm not going to stop turning into a dog and eating garbage. That's not on the table. I'm asking if you're jealous of Moony and if there's anything I can do to ease that.'

'No,' Harry replies, rolling his eyes. 'No, it's fine. That's not…I was just surprised.' He blinks a few times, rubbing his eyes. 'Well, no. Is it alright for you? You're not still, you don't still feel that way about him?'

Sirius' laugh is bitter, looks like it tastes like acid on his tongue. 'Did I ever?' he says. 'Honestly, if James was cruel to me, I was cruel to Remus by the same measure.'

'What do you mean?'

Sirius stands up. 'I mean we shouldn't go digging up old bones from the past right now,' he says, stretching. 'I need to get out. Would you like to take me for a walk?'

Fresh air sounds good. It is dark outside and drizzling slightly, rain sticking to the windows like stars. Harry summons his trainers. 'That's a good idea,' he says, relieved. Once he has laced up his shoes and got to his feet, Sirius is already pulling his shirt over his head, preparing to transform again. Harry stops him with a hand on the wrist. 'Before you—I just want to...' Leaning in, he kisses Sirius softly. 'Are we good?'

'I don't know,' Sirius murmurs against his mouth. He pulls back, looking at Harry with concern. 'I hope so. Nothing has changed for me.'

*

Later—after they have taken a long walk in the drizzling rain and Sirius’ fur has slicked to his body, leaving him looking damp and chilled even when they get home and he turns back into himself—Harry asks: 'Did my mum know about any of this? With you and dad?'

They are getting into bed, stripping out of damp clothes and casting warming charms on the blankets. Harry drops down onto the mattress as he asks the question, scooting his legs under the sheets as quick as he can.

'What?' Sirius laughs. He shakes droplets of water out of his long hair and pushes it back off his face. 'Oh yeah, she knew everything. It's not actually… I'm not proud of it, but not long after her and James started dating for real, I went and spilled everything to her. I think I convinced myself she needed to know, but deep down I was probably just very jealous and I wanted them to break up.'

'What happened?'

'She knew already,' Sirius says, chuckling and peeling back the blankets to climb in next to Harry. 'Remus had told her everything, ages before. They were very close, those two. Yeah, she knew everything that was happening.'

'Wait, _was_ happening? You mean it was still going on when mum and dad were dating?'

Sirius scratches his neck. 'Well… yeah. I mean, there's a grey area there, Harry. It's not like they were married overnight.'

'They don't need to be married for it to be wrong to still be sleeping with someone who's dating _my mum_.'

'She knew about it! It was fine!' A pause, and Sirius adds, 'Well, James didn't know she knew, admittedly. At first. He was trying pretty hard to keep it this big secret, and Remus, Lily and I didn't have the heart to tell him that it wasn't.'

'I can't believe you,' Harry says, rubbing his temples.

'Ha, there was one night—this was really early on when they started seeing each other, we were still in school—when Prongs took Lily out to Hogsmeade for a date. They must have had a few drinks, because James got back, pretty early mind you, and came back to the dormitory just looking completely stupid, huge grin on his face, and he took me aside and he gave me this big speech about finding the person who is right for you. And how when you meet them, the whole world will just fit into place, and you'll be so happy. And he was poking my chest and taking my face in his hands and like, leaning in, deadly serious and I think crying a bit, and he was saying, "You'll find it one day, Pads. I promise you. You'll find someone so special. Maybe Remus. Maybe not. You'll find someone and you'll love them and they'll love you and it will be perfect." And then he got onto my bed, got me to suck his dick, wanked me off, and immediately fell asleep. Then woke up to chuck me out of my own bloody bed because apparently I kept kicking him.'

Harry laughs, rolling towards Sirius in bed and sliding his cold toes between his godfather’s legs. 'That's a nice story.' 

'I guess in some ways he ended up being right.' He pulls Harry close. 'Smart guy, your dad.'


	15. Chapter 15

Early on Saturday morning, Harry finds himself intercepted on his way downstairs to the kitchen by a very proper looking, somewhat familiar seeming owl. It swoops past him, buffeting him around the head with its wings as it pushes past him in the narrow stairway leading down to the basement kitchen.

Harry stumbles slightly, surprised, and follows the bird the last few steps down. 'Hey!' he calls after it. 'I can take the letter!'

But the owl ignores him. It lands primly in the centre of the long kitchen table where Sirius is already sitting, breakfast and the paper in front of him. Sirius glances up, blinking, and looks at the owl, who hoots at him and hops closer. It sticks out its leg, letter attached. 'Oh, thanks,' he says, taking the letter, barely glances at it and throws it down next to his toast to read later.

The owl hoots again, sharply, but Sirius isn't paying it much attention. His gaze has slid onto Harry, who is crossing the room, yawning. Harry is wearing what passes for his pajamas, a very old t-shirt which was once technically Dudley's (although never worn, because of the soft pink stripes which were both too gay, and too likely to make him look like a giant piece of coconut ice) which falls nearly to his knees, and a pair of soft, cotton pajama bottoms.

'C'mere,' Sirius says, turning in his chair to make room for Harry and patting his lap. Harry drops happily to sit on his godfather's bony legs, reaching for a slice of toast and flicking his wand to get his tea going. Sirius immediately presses his mouth to the back of Harry's neck, kissing gently, and murmurs, 'Good morning. Oh, you’re damp.’ He rubs his nose in the wet curls at the nape of Harry’s neck. ‘Just get out of the bath?’'

'Morning, yeah,' Harry says around a mouthful of toast, tilting his head to the side to give Sirius' more room to kiss him, sighing. 'Did you leave a window open last night? This owl had a go at me on the stairs.'

'Must have, I suppose.' Harry can feel Sirius smirk against his skin. 'You okay?'

'I'll survive.' Blinking around at the breakfast things on the table, Harry adds, 'Daddy, where's the butter?'

Sirius mumbles something, and the jam jar moves out of the way to reveal the small plate of mostly melted butter sitting behind it. Lips still teasing at the curve of Harry's shoulder, Sirius' hands slip up under his t-shirt, pulling him closer and feeling him up even as Harry tries, laughing, to butter his toast. He has noticed that Sirius gets particularly affectionate in the mornings—once he's awake properly, anyway. Especially on mornings where they have not woken up in the same bed, which have admittedly been reducing in frequency over the past few weeks.

'What's the letter?' Harry asks.

'No idea,' Sirius says. He falters in peppering Harry's skin with kisses to look at the owl, which is still sitting primly on the table, and say: 'I'll look at it later. _You_ can go, by the way. I've got it.'

The owl hoots, indignantly.

Harry's teacup finally slides itself in front of him, pot tipping itself to pour amber liquid into the mug. 'I think she wants you to read it now,' he tells Sirius.

'I've got more important things on my mind.' Sirius brings one hand up to tease at Harry's nipple, the other slipping down to play with the fastenings of his pajamas. 'Did you sleep well?'

Harry hums out an affirmation, melting back into Sirius' touch. He shoves the last bite of his triangle of toast into his mouth and licks jam off his fingers. 'Can we please get rid of this bird? I feel weird with it watching.'

'Yeah, bird, fuck off,' Sirius says, hand slipping down to palm Harry through his pants. Harry shivers. He lets his eyes flutter closed, feeling himself slowly warming up, before Sirius jerks sharply and says, 'Ow!'

Harry blinks. 'What happened?' The owl is closer now, standing right on the edge of Sirius' crumb covered plate, glaring at them.

Sirius rubs his forearm. 'She pecked me!' Grumbling, he reaches for the envelope on the table. 'Fine, fine, I'm reading the letter.'

Harry snorts out a laugh and resettles himself slightly on Sirius' lap so that he can grab his tea and take a long sip as Sirius reads behind him. Harry is halfway through his second sip, when he feels Sirius go very stiff.

'What time is it?' he asks, voice slightly strangled—as the owl finally hoots once more, pleased, and swoops out of the room.

Harry glances at his watch. 'About three to nine,' he answers.

'Shit. _Shit_. Harry, you gotta get out of my lap.'

Standing up quickly, Harry nearly spills his tea. On his feet, he turns around to look at Sirius', whose face has drained of colour, his eyes wide and alarmed. 'What is it?'

'It says she'll be here by nine,' Sirius replies faintly. 'To _talk_.'

'Who?' Harry asks—but the word is out of his mouth and then, bare seconds later, the flames in the fireplace burst into life, glow green, and out steps Professor McGonagall wearing a neat set of green tartan robes and a deep frown.

Harry lets out a strangled noise and immediately moves to pull down his t-shirt—which is, thankfully, already covering any evidence of his half-aroused state. 'Professor!' he says, flattening his sleep ruffled hair. ‘Er, good morning!’ 

'Potter,' she says, stiffly. 'Black. I trust you got my owl?'

'About thirty seconds ago,' Sirius says. He, at least, is fully dressed and sitting at the table like an adult—not wearing his pajamas and clutching a cup of tea with a semi. 'To what do we owe the pleasure?'

McGonagall gives a long, sharp look to the both of them—her eyes pausing, somewhat disapprovingly, on Harry's mismatched socks and the combination of Derek Rose pajama bottoms and old, worn oversized t-shirt. She breathes out through her nose and says, 'May I have a seat?'

Sirius waves his hand in a gesture of _help yourself_ , and conjures another teacup to the table, pouring McGonagall a cup from the freshly brewed pot.

Hesitantly, Harry sits down in the seat next to Sirius, opposite his old Professor.

'This is not remotely my business or concern,' McGonagall says, stirring milk into her tea. 'And I don't want to make it such. Neither of you are my students these days, and you are both adults.'

'Phineas told you, didn't he?' Harry asks, mouth dry.

'Yes, he did.' McGonagall sniffs, irritated. 'Or rather, it came up in an argument he was having with another portrait regarding the degeneracy of Gryiffindor students, past and present. He held the two of you up as prime examples of his case.'

'Can't argue with that,' Sirius says, buttering another slice of toast.

'I take it that it's true then?' McGonagall asks, the frown lines at the corner of her mouth deepening. 'That you are… that you are both...?'

'I'd like to know Phineas' exact words,' Sirius says dryly. 'I'm sure "defiling" was in there somewhere.'

McGonagall gives him a Look. 'Quite likely.'

'Professor—' Harry starts.

'Really, Potter, you are not my student anymore.'

'Uhhh, Ms McGonagall?' he tries. 'Er, that's not—sorry. What I mean is, if you're here about me and Sirius, it's fine. There's nothing to worry about. We're, you know, happy.'

McGonagall raises an eyebrow. 'Be that as it may, it occurred to me when Phineas Nigellus mentioned something about "living in secret sin"—' (Harry has to fight back a smile, at this) '—That I might be the only outside person who knew, in which case, I feel responsible to—'

'Oh! You're not!' Harry says, cutting her off. 'Ron and Hermione know, and Remus Lupin, and maybe Tonks.'

'Definitely Tonks,' Sirius says. 'Remus can't and won't keep secrets from her.'

Relief washes over McGonagall's expression. 'Oh, Merlin,' she says. 'That is good to know.' She lifts her mug to her mouth and takes a deep, steadying mouthful of tea. 'In that case, there is really no need for me to intervene myself in this.'

'Really?' Harry blinks. 'You don't disapprove?'

'I don't think it matters very much whether I approve or not,' she says plainly. 'I am under no illusions that anything I could say would change either of your feelings or behaviours, and again, it stopped being my business when you left school.'

Harry grins sheepishly. 'Sorry,' he says.

She takes another quick sip of tea. 'I'll finish this and be off,' she says. 'How is training going, Potter?'

'Oh, all done.' Scratching his neck, Harry says, 'I'll be graduating officially in a month or so. Fully qualified. Ready to, er...'

'Become an Auror? I recall it has been your ambition for a long time, now.'

'Yeah, I guess.' It feels slightly awkward, to admit that he is less than enamoured with the idea now, when it was McGonagall who stuck her neck out for him in the first place. 'It's a bit surreal, maybe.'

She raises an eyebrow. 'Second thoughts?'

'Well, that's why he's taking some time off,' Sirius says, chewing on his toast. 'Right? Get refreshed?'

'Yeah...' Trailing off, Harry looks down into the swirling liquid of his tea, frowning. He feels Sirius' hand slip down to the base of his spine—hopefully out of McGonagall's line of sight—to rub circles on his back.

To his surprise, when he looks up, McGonagall is smiling. It is barely there, just twitching up the corners of her lips, but when she speaks she says in her usual matter-of-fact tone. 'Sometimes our careers, and our ambitions and, yes, even our hearts can take us places that surprise us. Don't let yourself be restrained to what seems obvious, if it is not fulfilling you, Potter. I am quite certain you have other talents.'

'I… thanks, Professor,' Harry says automatically.

‘Did you know that I worked for the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, when I was your age, Potter?’ 

Harry blinks. ‘You did?’ He can’t quite imagine that. The idea of McGonagall as anything other than a teacher seems completely incongruous to him. ‘For how long?’ 

‘Only a couple of years,’ she says. ‘Then they offered me a promotion--a very good promotion, but one which would have tied me to that path forever, I think. And I turned it down and left the Ministry. Many people told me that I would regret that choice forever. Tried to talk me out of it.’ 

‘And did you?’

McGonagall smiles. ‘Not even for a moment.’ Finishing her tea, she stands up. 'I'll let you return to your breakfast,' she says. 'My apologies for the intrusion.'

'Quite alright,' Sirius says with a grin. 'I'll never turn down an opportunity to be scolded by you. Really takes a bloke back.'

She gives him a severe look and turns towards the fireplace.

But before she can go, Harry pushes his chair back and stands up, Sirius' hand falling away from his back.

'Wait!' he says, the neckline of his t-shirt slipping down to bare one shoulder. He tugs it up, self consciously. 'Er, Professor, I know this isn't the time, but—you don't happen to have any, um, opportunities at Hogwarts, do you?’ There is silence for a moment as both McGonagall and Sirius turn to look at him. He shifts. ‘I know Neville is doing his apprenticeship with Professor Sprout. I was just, if there is anything for Defence?'

McGonagall looks at him appraisingly. 'You want to teach Defence Against the Dark Arts?'

Honestly, the thought hadn't properly cemented in Harry's head until about a forty seconds ago, but hearing it out loud… 'Yes,' he says firmly. 'I think so.' He glances at Sirius. 'That would… make sense, wouldn't it?'

'If it's what you want,' Sirius replies, sounding equally surprised.

'You certainly have the qualifications,' McGonagall says, consideringly. She think for a long minute, before saying, 'Very well. Would you like to come up to the school for an interview next week?'

The word is out of Harry’s mouth immediately. 'Absolutely.' Excitement is curling inside him now—he feels more thrilled with it than he has thinking about anything related to his career and future for months. Years, even.

'I will owl you the details,' McGonagall says. 'I hope when I see you next, however, you look somewhat more professional.'

Harry rubs his neck and grins as she steps into the fireplace and swirls away. 'She did come into _our_ kitchen, out of the blue,' he says, defensively. 'Lucky I was wearing anything at all, really.'

Sirius winks. 'We can change that,' he says and pulls Harry back into his lap. But he doesn't make any moves to undress him as suggested. He just looks him in the eye, thoughtful. 'Teaching? Really?'

'I was good at it,' Harry says. 'I liked it.'

'When you were doing it illegally as part of an underground resistance,' Sirius points out.

Harry laughs. 'That wasn't what was satisfying about it,' he replies. 'I know that might not make sense to _you_.'

'Have you been thinking about this for long?'

'No.' Harry frowns, looking away. 'You think it's a bad idea.'

'It's a sudden idea,' Sirius hums. Then his lip quirks up. ' _Professor Potter_.' He tries it out on his tongue, biting his lip. 'Oh, sir, I'm sorry I haven't done my homework, I guess you'll have to keep me back after class.'

Harry snorts. 'Shut it,' he mutters.

'No, it works. You have a quiet authority.'

'You can kiss my quiet authority if you keep calling me sir.'

Sirius smirks. 'Is that what we're calling it these days?' Tugging Harry close with both arms around his waist, he presses a sloppy kiss to Harry's cheek until Harry turns his head to replace it with his mouth. It's an awkward angle, Harry pulled a bit too close, twisted a bit too much around and Sirius a bit too tall for it to work right. But he grins into his godfather's mouth.

'Put the fire out,' Harry says. 'I don't want anyone else flooing in.'

With a word, the fire dies in the hearth, hissing out as though drenched in invisible water. 'Would you live at the school?' Sirius asks, leaning back slightly to look at Harry, who blinks.

'Yes, I—I suppose.' He shrugs. 'Teachers usually do, don't they?'

'Yeah.' Sirius sounds disappointed, a sulky expression teasing at the corner of his mouth, twisting it.

'If I become an auror,' Harry says, 'I would, would keep living here, of course. Is that what you want?'

'I want whatever you want.'

Harry narrows his eyes. Sirius' hands are starting to explore, pushing up Harry's t-shirt inch by inch by inch. 'What would you _prefer_?' he asks pointedly, and raises his arms so that the shirt can come up over his head. Sirius pulls it slowly, kissing his way up Harry's shoulder and neck as they are exposed to avoid answering.

'Nothing is set in stone,' Harry reminds him. 'I might not even get the job. I've barely even applied for it.'

'You could have any job you asked for,' Sirius says. 'If you asked the Minister to let you be the first wizarding Eurovision contestant you could consider it done.'

'That's the Minister, not McGonagall. Big difference. Tell me,' Harry adds, 'if you don't think I should try for this. You can be honest with me, you know that.'

Sirius corrects him. 'I can be selfish with you.' He quirks his lips against the curve of Harry's shoulder. 'I've missed you before. You always come back. I just...'

'I don't want you to be alone.'

'Merlin, don't worry about me.' Sirius snorts and pushes Harry up off his lap, turns him around, tugs him back in again. Harry stumbles slightly, falling forward so that is is straddling his godfather. A look in his eyes tells Harry that Sirius is not as casual about this as his tone says.

But when he opens his mouth to speak, Sirius cuts him off. He pulls Harry by the neck and fixes their mouths together, a sharp bite of want in it that tells Harry all he needs to know: 

Sirius wants him to stay.

Sirius still tastes like tea and jam and his stubble is long at the moment, scratching Harry's jaw. 'We were rudely interrupted,' he says, clearly vying to change the subject. 'And as you say, nothing is decided. I say we get back to my plans for the morning.'

'What were your plans?'

'Well, breakfast...'

'Done.'

'And then...' Sirius tilts Harry's head back, licking a stripe from the dip of his clavicle to the hollow behind his ear. 'God, you taste sweet. You always taste good, but you're _sweet_ right now.'

Harry squirms. 'What were we going to do after breakfast?'

'This,' Sirius says, and stands up. Or, he tries to. Gripping Harry at the back of his thighs, he is clearly attempting to lift him as he pushes himself to his feet, but he makes it only a couple of inches off the chair before he falls back with an _oof_ , Harry dropping heavily back on his lap. 'Shit.'

'Are you trying to pick me up?' Harry asks, laughing under his breath.

'I'm putting you on the table,' Sirius says, trying to stand again—and again, he drops back down. 'How much toast did you eat this morning? You're tiny, how can you weigh this much?'

Shifting his weight so that he is settled on Sirius' lap, arms looped around his shoulders, Harry smirks. 'I'm _compact_.'

'Fuck, you are.' Sirius tries to lift him again. 'What do you weigh?'

'More than you can lift. More than you, generally.'

'Bollocks.' Sirius looks him up and down. 'I'm like, a good head taller than you.'

'And I can close my hand around nearly your whole forearm.'

'One more try,' Sirius says and, with effort, stands up, tilting Harry back onto the kitchen table. The wood is cool under his back, making him shiver slightly as he laughs, pushing the butter dish away with one arm. Sirius grins, leaning over him. 'There we go.'

Harry opens his mouth to say something—ask Sirius where this is going, or if the table can hold them—but he is cut off by a deep, silencing kiss. Then, wordlessly, Sirius starts mouthing his way down Harry's neck, his body, his stomach.

Harry makes noise for both of them. He pants and he gasps, and he lets out little shivery noises when Sirius exhales warm breath on cooling skin between kisses. 'Yes, _yes_ ,' he says, when Sirius shifts back and his nose is nudging at the soft, soft cotton of Harry's pajama bottoms. Sirius seems to love this, always, tracing the shape of Harry's hard on through the fabric, dampening it with his breath and his tongue. Harry arches up when Sirius rubs his cheek along Harry's length and the sharp bristles of his stubble catch in the fine fabric of the pants. Harry isn't wearing anything underneath, so it grazes slightly, catching on the skin of his prick and he hisses through his teeth—but it doesn't feel bad.

There is a soft thunk as Sirius drops to his knees next to the table and moves his hands to pull at the waistband of Harry's pajamas. Helping by lifting his hips, Harry happily gets comfortable on the table. His back, arse and the upper parts of his legs are firmly on the hardwood surface, but his knees are dangling off the edge, next to Sirius. It makes it easy to get the bottoms off. They fall off over Harry's feet onto the floor and Sirius peels off Harry's socks with them, making Harry squirm ticklishly.

Spread out on the kitchen table, naked to the tips of his toes, with Sirius fully dressed and kneeling between his legs was not exactly how he expected to start his day—but then, neither was a surprise visit from his ex-head of house and with that out of the way, he's happy to take what he can get. And if that is a lazy Saturday morning blowjob, not bad at all.

Only, Sirius doesn't suck him off. Instead, he starts kissing the inside of Harry's thighs—warm, open mouthed kisses that seem to follow the approximate path of a sleepy bumblebee; starting somewhere inside Harry's left knee, exploring haphazardly to the inside crevice of his thigh, over to the other leg for a while, back to the knee except mouthing in the crevice behind it this time, and then lazily back up, closer and closer to Harry's cock without ever quite getting there until Harry is writhing on the table, fingers coming down to clutch his godfather's hair and trying to guide him where he _needs_ him with not-gentle encouragement and breathless words.

When he grits out something like 'Suck my fucking cock,' in four short, sharp breaths, Harry feels Sirius snort against his hipbone.

'Who says I was going to?' Sirius asks. He sounds a bit hoarse, as though he's as needy with anticipation as Harry is right now. But then he starts to kiss closer and closer to Harry's prick, and he thinks for one moment that they are finally getting there—

When Sirius drops his head lower, nudges Harry's legs further apart, and kisses the crease, the curve of his arse, closer and closer to...

' _Oh,_ ' Harry manages, automatically moving to close his legs again. But Sirius keeps holding them up and apart, his warm breath exhaling over Harry's hole, sending shivers up his spine. 'I… Daddy? What are you...?'

'Let me,' Sirius says huskily.

It's not something that Harry has ever really thought about, Sirius kissing him there. He's finding there are a lot of things like that, where Sirius will go to do it almost like an instinct, and Harry will realise he's never even _considered_ it as a possibility. But he supposes that comes from a sheltered formative period and a delayed start on any of this. Besides, he's not one to shy away from anything.

So instead of pulling away or pushing his legs closed or tugging Sirius by the hair he still has in his hands, Harry just lets his legs fall further apart and lets his grip on his godfather's hair loosen, slightly. If he doesn't like it, he can pull.

Turns out, not liking it isn't going to be a problem. The first touch of Sirius' tongue is gentle, pointed, almost curious—barely more than a touch of the tip, as though tasting something unfamiliar. Even this has Harry jumping slightly, like a current running through his skin. And then Sirius licks again, and again, less cautiously now with the flat of his tongue, and Harry finds himself pushing down against Sirius' face—and Sirius' arms curl around his thighs and pull him down the table; his arse slips over the edge, and Sirius buries his whole face between Harry's cheeks, lapping at him as though he has been starving for it.

Harry lets out a stream of curses, fingers clenching in Sirius' hair to hold him there, there, _there_. Sirius lets go of Harry's thighs and it's a bit of a strain to keep his legs spread enough, held up enough to give Sirius all the space he needs—but Harry does, because he does not want this to stop.

Sirius pulls back only enough to say, 'Wanted to do this for so long', before biting the cheek of Harry's arse and burying his face again to lave at his hole.

'Wh-why-why didn't you?' Harry gasps out, words stumbling on his tongue as he trips on his tongue (as he catches on Sirius' tongue, wanting and desperate).

Sirius doesn't reply, but laps at him with a fervour that says _this_ is the answer he's getting. His hands are on the round curves of Harry's arse, squeezing, pulling them apart for access and pushing together as though to suffocate himself. It feels good—so, so good—and Harry takes one hand from Sirius' hair to touch himself, panting and moaning.

But Sirius notices and pulls back to croak, 'No. Please.'

'I _need_ to,' Harry argues, wrapping his hand around his cock. He needs to come like this, Sirius' face buried inside his arse, licking him through his orgasm, beard burning on the soft skin.

But Sirius says, 'I need you to fuck me. Soon. Baby, please.'

So they both need things and with a regretful whine, Harry squeezes his eyes shut and clenches his fist on the table, slamming it down in two heavy thunks when Sirius licks him again, licks inside him, tongue going as deep as it can. Harry's head thumps on the table too, and he's kind of tempted to kick Sirius in the head too—his whole body just feels like a tight coil of desire, and he can't decide whether he wants to ride it out or lash out with it, drown in it.

And Sirius keeps eating him out. Sometimes tongue buried deep, face nuzzled deep in Harry's arse. Sometimes pulling back to kiss, bite, squeeze at soft, plump skin and then dive back in with short, sharp licks that are shaped like words. Through it all, Harry writhes and begs and says stupid, senseless things which eventually just dissolve into a stream of, 'Fuck, fuck, fuck, yes, there, love you, there, love you, please, please, _please_.' And etc., etc.

Until Sirius finally pulls away, hair messy, mouth red, eyes blown black and sits back on his heels to stare at Harry with a slightly unfocused look. Slowly, he licks his lips and Harry, pushing himself up unsteadily onto his elbows, blinks down at him. His cock is swollen and curved up toward his belly, almost painfully hard, and he feels open, wet; tremors working through him like little, intermittent sparks.

Harry half falls off the table when he sits up and pushes himself down to join Sirius on the floor. He tumbles onto him, pinning him down and kissing him—and it's cold, because they are in the basement and the flooring is stone. Sirius says, 'This isn't what I had in mind,' into his mouth, and something about moving to a bed.

But Sirius' clothes can come off and can lie under the coldest parts of them. But they can make their own warmth. But Harry can't be bothered going _anywhere_ , not when he has Sirius underneath him.

So instead he just starts working at the buttons on his godfather's shirt and says with conviction, voice rough, that nothing, _nothing_ will keep them apart. He means it partly in reassurance for earlier, but in honesty he also means it in a very literal, immediate sense: not cold stone floors, not fumbling with clothes, not any more unexpected visitors, he's going to fuck Sirius right now, right here.

He does, opening him up the way he knows now that Sirius likes it—fast and a little bit rough, heavy on the crooked, searching fingers and a touch light on the lube. It's messy and a bit uncomfortable, Sirius climbing into Harry's lap, his long legs getting in the way, and sitting himself down onto Harry's cock fast and deep. They fuck there on the floor, kissing and clinging to each other, Harry thrusting up in a pace that sometimes falters with the way Sirius is trying to ride him—but they get there eventually. Sirius shoots all over Harry's chest and stomach bare moments before Harry thrusts himself deep one last time and buries his face in his godfather's chest, spilling inside him.

'Do you want help preparing for the job interview?' Sirius asks later (significantly later, after they have gone to clean up in the bathroom upstairs and ended up screwing again in the tub, splashing water all over the floor and making an absolute mess).

'Have you ever _had_ a job?' Harry asks. 

‘I mean, I did a few odd things after school…’ Sirius says. ‘Point taken, though. I just meant, I do support you. You know that, right?’ 

He still sounds a little bit like he’s forcing the words out through his teeth, but Harry smiles and says, ‘I do, yeah.’ 

*

The following Thursday, they drive to Hogsmeade in the Aston Martin to make a day of it. McGonagall is meeting with Harry after five, when classes have ended for the evening, so they have plenty of the day to waste. Nerves are bubbling inside Harry, twisting and making him feel pretty ill. He has spoken to Neville about what to expect, and gone to Ron and Hermione for help preparing. They took the revelation of Harry's sudden desire to start teaching a lot better than his sudden desire for his godfather.

'You don't think it's too soon?' Harry asked. 'Too sudden? After all this time training to be an auror?' And they both looked at him like he was stupid.

'I learned more from you about Defence in school than any of our teachers,' Ron pointed out. 'And that includes Remus, doesn't it? I mean, he was good, and we learned a lot, but half of it was Care of Magical Creatures. And Harry, you were really bloody good at this stuff.'

'But I won't be… I dunno, protecting people, like I would as an auror. Isn’t that important? I'll just be teaching.'

Hermione had smiled sadly. 'Harry, I think you underestimate how much good you'll be able to do in a school.'

Even with a few of the magical tweaks Sirius has put on the car (a boost to speed, something like that banging-jump thing that the night bus can do, and the odd tendency to melt through traffic like butter) the drive to Hogsmeade has them leaving the house before sunrise in the morning and arriving at the village with only enough time for a short meal in the Three Broomsticks—which Harry mostly pushes around his plate in anxiety—before Harry has to head over to the school.

'Good luck,' Sirius says when Harry pushes back his chair at their table and stands up. It is pretty quiet in the pub, but there are people around. People whose eyes keep slipping to them in curious glances. Harry shifts on his feet, letting out a deep breath, rolls his shoulders. 'You'll be fine.'

'You just going to stay here?' Harry asks, taking one more chip off his plate and eating it quickly so that he has _something_ in his stomach.

Sirius grins. 'Yeah, I'll just catch up with Rosmerta, have a couple pints. See you in a while.'

'Okay.' Harry steels himself. 'Okay. Bye.' He reaches out, squeezes Sirius' hand once, and walks out of the tavern.

Hogwarts is framed in gold in the evening light, and he can see the high towers from the village. He takes a deep breath, and starts walking up the long path to the grounds.


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ so, the final two chapters are pretty short and sweet, so I'm just going to post one today to speed this whole thing along a bit. Thanks for sticking with me through this whole ~event~! Nearly there!

By the time Harry leaves the castle and crosses the grounds towards Hagrid's cabin, the sun is setting and seeing the cool lavender and rose light falling across the grass of the Hogwarts grounds and the shadowed outline of the forest sends Harry tumbling back into memories with such force that he almost feels like he is back at school, invisibility cloak on, dashing across the grounds to visit Hagrid when he's not supposed to be.

Grinning, he gives into the urge and takes the last few yards to the cabin at a run. His footfalls must alert Fang to his presence, because before he can even lift his hand to knock on the door the cabin fills with rumbling barks, and Harry hears Hagrid's muffled voice within saying, 'Oy, settle down, settle down. No need ter be scarin' people off now.'

Harry knocks. He can hear that Hagrid is already approaching the door anyway, and a bare moment later it pulls open. Hagrid's huge shadow falls on Harry, filling the entire doorway—and then after a brief, baffled moment, Hagrid's grin fills his entire beard and he says, 'Harry! What are yeh doin' here?'

'I've just been up at the school,' Harry says, slightly muffled as he is pulled into a tight, one-armed hug. 'Can I come in for a bit?'

'O' course!' Stepping out of the way, Hagrid moves back for Harry to come inside. Fang immediately pushes past Hagrid's legs when there is room and bound forward to jump on Harry and lick his face before intently sniffing all over his clothes as Harry tries to make his way over to the table. 'I'll put the kettle on,' Hagrid says, then makes a shooing motion at Fang. 'Leave it alone, yeh dumb dog. What are you sniffin' him for? Yeh know Harry!'

'He can smell Sirius,' Harry laughs as Fang's wet nose bumps all over his trousers. He scratches behind Fang's ears. 'Is there another dog?' he asks Fang. 'Where is he?'

Fang growls low in his throat, but eventually seems to find his curiosity sated and stops sniffing all over Harry, instead just slumping himself next to the chair and resting his head in Harry's lap. He starts to drool on Harry's nice clothes.

Hagrid snorts. 'Sirius still runnin' about as that great big hound, then?' he asks. 'What's he doin' getting all over yer clothes? He's not becomin' a lap dog, is he?'

Harry chuckles, but a little sheepishly. He rubs his neck as Hagrid places drops tea bags into a couple of mugs and picks up the kettle. 'He's much too big to get in my lap,' he says. 'Not to say he doesn't try. Thanks,' he adds when Hagrid puts the slightly chipped mug of dark brown tea in front of him. It is followed by a plate of bath buns, and Harry is hungry enough from barely eating all day that he reaches for one, slightly cautiously. 'I actually have something to tell you about Sirius.'

'Oh?' Hagrid raises his bushy eyebrows at Harry as he sits himself down in the chair opposite.

For a moment, however, Harry can't say anything more. He has taken a bite of the bun which was, on first chew, perfectly fine. The second chew, meanwhile, uncovered a mouthful of something baked into the centre of the bun which tastes, quite simply, like grit. Harry chews for a moment, feeling like he's grinding pebbles between his teeth, and manages to ask around a mouthful of bread; 'Uh, Hagrid, what's in these?'

'Currants,' Hagrid grunts.

Forcefully, Harry swallows, and immediately slugs down a large mouthful of scalding tea to wash down the bun.

'An' some candied orange peel,' Hagrid adds. 'Alright, aren't they?'

'Very nice,' Harry says agreeably—but eats the rest of the bun much more cautiously, mostly just peeling away the soft bread on the outside of the cake and eating that.

'What's this you were gonna say about Sirius? He's not got himself into trouble, has he?'

'Nothing like that.' Harry sighs, giving Hagrid a look. 'Don't freak out, okay?'

Hagrid's eyes narrow. 'An' why'd I do that, then?' Warningly: 'Harry...'

'Sirius and I are...' Harry waves his hands, searching for words. Words that are concise, accurate and unambiguous. It is harder than it should be. 'Involved?'

Voice almost a growl, Hagrid says, 'Involved in what?'

'Er...' Harry shrugs. 'Each other.' He pauses, searching for a change in Hagrid's now wide-eyed, unreadable expression. 'I mean, we're—'

'I know what yeh mean, Harry!' Hagrid says, then scrubs a huge hand over his face and sits back in his chair, not saying anything. His hand drops to just cover his mouth, and he looks up at the ceiling for long enough that Harry shifts uncomfortably on his chair and takes another careful nibble from his bath bun. Finally he says hoarsely: 'How long's this been goin' on, then?'

'A while. A couple of months,' Harry says, then pauses. 'Sort of.'

'That little...' Hagrid rumbles, clearly about Sirius. He drops his hand from his face and takes a sip of tea, but his hand on the mug is gripping tight enough that it looks to be in danger of shattering. 'Where is he? I'd like ter have a word with him, if you don' mind.'

He sounds furious, and Harry quickly shakes his head. 'No, come on, listen to me,' he says. 'Sirius hasn't done anything wrong.'

'DONE NOTHIN' WRONG?' Hagrid roars. 'He's meant ter be lookin' out for yeh, and now he—'

'No!' Harry pushes his chair back and half stands up, causing Fang to startle. 'Hagrid, no. It's okay. He loves me.'

'I know _that_.' Hagrid waves his hand. 'Course he does, don't he? That don't mean he can go aroun' messin' about with yeh, when yer more 'n twenty years younger than him an' barely outta school, Harry.'

' _Barely out of school_?' Harry repeats. 'I'm twenty-one, Hagrid. I'm not a teenager.'

'Yer know what I mean. Yeh've just been at school an' then at that auror school, yeh haven't gone out an' struck out fer yourself yet.'

'Neither has Sirius!' Harry shoots back. 'He—well, you know. And I've done _enough_ , Hagrid. I've done enough.' The second time, he says it quieter, feeling tired. He sits back down with an exhale, and looks imploringly at his oldest friend. 'I love him, and he loves me. Isn't that what’s important?'

'There's a big difference between lovin' someone an' bein' good fer 'em,' Hagrid says seriously. Then he groans, buries his face in his hands again and mutters, 'This is all my fault.'

Harry runs a hand through his hair, baffled. 'What?' he asks incredulously. 'How on earth do you figure—'

'I shouldn'ta taken yeh to Dumbledore when yeh were a baby, should I?' Hagrid says as if it were obvious. 'I oughtta given yeh to Sirius an' let him raise yeh.'

Harry throws his hands in the air. 'I knew you were going to do this!' he says, voice raising. 'I had no idea how, but I knew you were going to take this personally, and—'

'Yeh'd never have been raised by those good fer' nothin' Dursleys, fer one thing,' Hagrid continues, ignoring him. 'Sirius'd have raised yer right, an' he wouldn'ta gone after Pettrigrew because he'd've had yeh to look after. He'd have brought yeh up as his son from the start, an' yeh could've been—'

Harry cuts him off, pulling a face. 'I don't want Sirius to have been my dad!'

'Course yeh do,' Hagrid says. 'That's what he was meant ter be, an' this is all some mixed up thing, deep down.'

'I _really_ don't.' Trying for an even tone, Harry leans forward across the table. 'Hagrid, listen to me. This has nothing to do with anything you did or didn't do, and even if something could have happened to change it, I wouldn't want it to. I'm happy with Sirius. We are happy together.'

Hagrid shakes his head, squeezing his beard. 'Yer not thinkin' this through,' he says. 'What about kids, Harry?'

'What about them?'

'Yeh want 'em, don't yeh? Yer not goin' to be havin' kids with Sirius, then?'

'We haven't talked about it, but I don't think—'

'An' what about gettin' married? Yeh plannin' on marryin' yeh godfather when he's twice yer age?' Hagrid asks, sounding distraught. 'Harry, yeh deserve—'

'I know what I deserve!' Harry says loudly, standing up again. 'But I don't care about any of that, Hagrid. I don't care about what I deserve, or what people want for me. I know what I want, and I don't care if it means we're not going to get married. I can't imagine we would. And no, we won't have kids. So what? Sirius doesn't want them, and I don't need them to be happy. I have Teddy. Ron and Hermione will have kids one day, and I'll be right there with them when they do.' He says it in a stream, the words tumbling out of him—things he's half-thought but hasn't voiced yet. He feels lighter the moment they're in the air. 'This is it for me. And it's what makes _me_ happy, and you know what? I've earned being a little selfish.'

Hagrid looks at him for a long time, black eyes shining with tears, and slowly he gets to his feet, comes around the table (bumping it and sending tea splashing onto the tablecloth) and takes Harry by the shoulders, almost hefting him off his feet. 'I'm sorry, Harry,' he says sincerely. 'O' course yeh get ter choose what—I dunno if this—but yer right, It's not up ter me.'

Harry smiles, weakly. 'Um, there's one more thing,' he says. 'On kids… I'm not going to have a shortage in my life, in a sense.'

Hagrid furrows his eyebrows. 'What d'yeh mean?'

'It's why I was up at the castle,' Harry explains. 'I just had an interview with McGonagall. To apprentice as Defense teacher.' He grins, happiness bubbling inside him. 'She offered me the position. I'm starting after Christmas. Hagrid, I'm going to teach here.'

And with that, Hagrid bursts into tears properly, pulling Harry in close into an absolutely suffocating hug. Harry scrambles slightly, his toes barely scraping the floor and his face buried in Hagrid's plaid shirt. 'I KNEW IT,' Hagrid wails. 'I KNEW YEH'D COME HOME.' After several long moments of tight hugging, sobbing and laughter, Hagrid puts Harry back down and wipes his eyes roughly with his sleeve. 'I'll set yeh up a bed,' he says, choked up. 'Yeh can live here with me an' Fang.'

Harry laughs. 'I don't think—'

'O' course, o' course.' Hagrid shakes his head, pressing his palm to his forehead as though realising something. 'Yeh'll want ter be livin' with Sirius in Hogsmeade or summit, won't yeh? That's right.'

'I'll just live at the school, probably,' Harry replies, still laughing. He reaches out to pat Hagrid comfortingly on the shoulder. 'Are you okay?'

Hagrid sniffles. 'I'm glad yer coming back where yeh belong.' He pulls out his handkerchief and blows his nose loudly. 'An' I'm glad yeh happy.'

Harry nods, rubs his hand over his eyes and smiles. 'Me too.'


	17. Chapter 17

Christmas day at the Burrow is, as always, loud and boisterous to the extreme—a feast of food and presents and laughter and family. For Harry, it feels sort of like a final hurrah for this extended break of his. Nearly nine months since he finished his auror training, three since he decided to give that all up, and he is returning to Hogwarts this week. It would feel almost as though he was in school again, just waiting for term to start again after the Christmas break—if not for the fact that his insides are squirming with nerves and his head is pounding with how much he has to prepare.

Well, slightly less for this.

He is sitting in the Weasley's living room in front of the fire with Teddy sitting next to him on the couch. Teddy is playing with the toys he got for Christmas (mostly the play-doh like substance that changes colour whenever he touches it, now flashing along with the rapidly changing hue of his hair) and mostly ignoring Harry and Remus right now. Which is good, because Remus is wiping his eyes with the pad of his thumb and laughing in a way that is half suppressed sobs.

'I'm sorry,' Harry says quickly, reaching out to pat him on the shoulder. 'But thank you, thank you so much, I really appreciate—'

'MOONY, ARE YOU CRYING?' Sirius' voice cuts across the room, cut with laughter and a little bit too much sherry. Tonks is right behind him, her hand flying to her mouth when she sees her husband dabbing at his eyes with his sleeve—and there is a sway in her step which suggests that her and Sirius have both been indulging a touch too early.

'It's fine,' Remus says quickly as they come over. 'It's fine, I just—'

Sirius grabs his friend by the jaw and turns his face to look at him. He peers at him for a moment, then snorts and says, 'Ugh, happy tears. Harry, what did you do?'

'Aw, c'mere love.' Tonks drops down onto the arm of the chair next to Remus, pulling him into a too-tight hug and resting her chin on the top of his head. She gives him a sloppy kiss to the temple, and nearly falls off where she's perched. 'Whoops! Sorry, by the way, Sirius and I found Molly's cooking sherry and I think we've ruined the trifle.'

'I can tell,' sniffs Remus, wiping his nose.

Harry looks up at Sirius sheepishly. 'I just asked if I could use his old syllabus.'

'Of _course_ ,' Sirius groans, throwing himself down onto the chair next to Harry and chucking an arm around his shoulder. He chuckles. 'Pull it together, Moony.'

'This is perfect,' Tonks says, punching Remus in the shoulder. 'Honey, the kappas you've got breeding in the sea monkey tank, he can have some of those when they're grown.'

'That reminds me, I've got to move them into the aquarium this week,' Remus says, sounding a bit less teary. 'They're starting to hatch.'

Just as Remus starts to mention something about raising a Bunyip and whether Harry would like to borrow it for a lesson, a large group of Weasleys begin to migrate into the room from the kitchen, talking and laughing. Harry glances at Sirius, expecting him to remove his arm from where it is slung around his neck—although most of the people in the room know about them at this point there are a handful of people with whom they have yet to broach the subject. But Sirius doesn't move his arm; instead he grins tipsily and bumps his nose against the shell of Harry's ear, and Harry just rolls his eyes.

No one seems to pay the fact that Sirius is touching his godson inappropriately much mind, anyway. Perhaps partially because Tonks, after only a few moments, lets out a shout of alarm and falls off the arm of the chair properly, crashing to the floor and quickly assuring the room at large that she's fine, she's fine, no, she's not drunk, it's only 2pm, really Molly, no, I have no idea what happened to your sherry.

The rest of the afternoon passes very pleasantly. Harry plays with Teddy and his colourful goo for a while, as Ron and Hermione come over and settle on the floor in front of the fire to join their conversation. Some time in the afternoon Leonora comes over to find Sirius and steals him away for a game of fetch in the snow. Ginny and Harry follow them, wrapping up against the cold outside, and stand at the gate at the edge of the garden, laughing as Leonora pelts a tennis ball across the field, sending Sirius bounding into snow drifts until he is sopping wet and probably freezing.

Over dinner, Sirius is one of the loudest at the table, his hair damp and a flush in his cheeks from booze and spending nearly forty minutes in the snow.

However, as the evening starts to wind down and people start heading home, he grows quieter and quieter, a crease forming between his eyebrows and the corners of his mouth turned down whenever he thinks no one is looking at him.

For the last couple of years, Ron, Hermione, Remus, Tonks and Teddy have all returned to Grimmauld Place after Christmas dinner and stayed the night—so when it comes time to leave, they all automatically find one another and floo home together, giving Mr and Mrs Weasley tight hugs good-bye before they leave. There's not much of a real reason for the tradition, beyond the fact that usually at least a couple of them are very drunk (this year it seems to be Sirius, Tonks and Hermione, who is hiccuping occasionally but otherwise masking it well), and they want to be together.

Back home, things are subdued. Remus plays with his son on the floor, Ron and Hermione curl up on the sofa, and Tonks sways along to the Christmas music playing on the stereo. Harry goes downstairs to make warm butterbeer for everyone, and Sirius…

Well, Sirius disappears.

He is there to take his butterbeer, and at first he is involved in the conversation, his body a languid line on the chair next to Harry, head tipped back and yawning occasionally.

But then Hermione says, 'So Harry, you start next week, don't you?'

'Yeah,' Harry replies, tucking his legs up on the sofa. 'Well, sort of. The students don't come back for another week after that, but there's apparently a bunch of important planning I have to be involved with, and the teachers all start back early so it'll be time for me to catch up with the current Defence professor and get set up.'

'But you'll be teaching classes when the students come back?'

Harry shrugs. 'That depends on how my mentor wants to do it. I'll be following his lead, so he might give me a couple of classes and have me take all of them, or he might just want me to assist with his for a while. I'm not sure yet, I haven't actually met him.'

'Neville says that first month was torture,' Ron says—and some time during Ron's description of Neville's _Terrible First Month At Hogwarts_ , Sirius stretches, stands up off the couch, and excuses himself. Harry barely notices, figuring he's just popping to the bathroom or something.

However, half an hour later Harry is still talking to the others and getting as much advice from Remus as possible for things to do before classes start ('I had a big list of all of your names and photographs,' he tells them, laughing at himself. 'And every morning before that first semester started I'd quiz myself on all of your names. I didn't want to go in not knowing who anyone was.'). And Sirius hasn't come back downstairs.

Eventually Remus also notices, pausing and saying, 'Where's Pads?'

'Sulking,' Tonks mumbles. She is leaning against Remus' shoulder, eyes closed, with Teddy in her lap. He is also fast asleep, sucking on the edge of his sleeve and oblivious to the world.

'Maybe he's gone to bed,' Ron suggests, yawning himself.

Harry glances at his watch. 'It's only gone nine,' he frowns. 'And he would have said.'

'He's sulkin',' Tonks says again, still not opening her eyes. 'He's always sulking.'

Remus does shrug at Harry with an expression of _'Well, she's not wrong.'_

Harry stands up. 'I'll go find him,' he says, heading upstairs.

He is barefoot, and when he steps onto the third floor of the house the varnished wood flooring is almost ice-cold underfoot. They stripped up all the carpeting a couple of months back and restored the hard mahogany underneath, but now Harry kind of regrets it as the season has slipped into winter and the house has cooled.

He finds Sirius in the only room they have left to redecorate: the master bedroom at the end of the hall which once belonged to his mother. Every other room on the floor is finished now—stripped, redesigned, re-plastered, re-furnished. Removed of any dark artefacts (or hidden caches of firewhiskey, of which they found another three).

But his mother's bedroom, Sirius had not wanted to touch. 'Why don't we just fill it with concrete and leave it?' he had suggested, when Harry pointed out it was time to tackle it. 'It can be an art piece. She probably filled it with the most awful things, it'll be safer all around.'

Sirius wasn't wrong: it had been filled with dark objects, disgusting artifacts and a small, slightly sticky nest that Kreacher had once built, not to mention feathers and fur from Buckbeak's tenure here. But in the end, they had dealt with it all, one piece at a time.

Now, the room is bare, floor to ceiling. Sirius had refused to salvage any of the furniture, so instead it had all been incinerated, and the peeling wallpaper is still printed with the shapes of the blasts. The only object left in the room is the huge fireplace on the far wall, the ornate frame chipped and dusted, but still beautiful.

Sirius is sitting on the floor in the middle of the room with a glass of firewhiskey, looking at it. Harry pauses in the doorway. Sirius knows he's there—he can tell from the slight tilt of his head, the stillness in his posture.

'Hey,' Harry says, stepping inside.

Sirius turns to look at him, smiling slightly. Harry hadn't quite expected a smile, anticipating instead to find Sirius in one of his darker moods. He crosses the room and sits down next to his godfather, reaching for his hand and tangling their fingers together. Sirius lifts it up and kisses it.

Harry looks at him. 'We missed you downstairs. You've been gone a while.'

Sirius blinks. 'Have I? Just came up here to think, guess I lost track of time.'

'Thinking about what?'

'Moving into here,' Sirius answers, still looking at the fireplace. 'Once the wallpaper is gone and some carpet has been put down, it will be quite nice. More light.'

'Your mother's bedroom?' Harry asks in surprise.

Sirius shakes his head. 'It's not anymore,' he says. 'The house is ours now.'

'Well, yeah, but...'

'It feels like it, doesn't it?'

Harry looks around, taking in the way the light from the waxing moon falls from the high windows onto the clear floor, the weightless feel of the room now that it is not heavy with the past. The hallway outside, clean and bright, the library opposite, filled with books they bought themselves, the clear, open, sunshine blue drawing room. 'It does,' he says.

'And I was thinking,' Sirius continues. 'If I'm in here, then the fireplace is right there.'

Harry smirks. 'And?'

'And, you'll have a fireplace in your office.'

'I will.'

Sirius tilts his head to look at Harry seriously, eyes slightly heavy with drink and a lazy curve to his mouth. 'Come home often,' he says, leaning in and brushing his lips across Harry's cheek.

'Every night, probably,' Harry says, and feels Sirius grin against his skin.

'We have to go shopping before you head off,' he says. 'Get you some new robes. Can't go around teaching every day in the same three sets.'

'I haven't worn proper robes for ages. It's going to be weird.' He nudges Sirius. 'Come on, let's get back downstairs. I think it's time to put everyone to bed.'

Sirius drops his mouth to Harry's neck, tilting his head back. 'Sure,' he says, not moving to get up, but instead just peppering small kisses below Harry's ear.

Harry glances at the tall mirror built into the frame of the fireplace, sees himself and Sirius sitting in the centre of the floor, bathed in moonlight and the shadows lining the walls of the empty room, the amber firewhiskey glinting in the small line of light from the hall, and smiles. 'We really tore this place apart, didn't we?'

Sirius mumbles into his skin, his mouth curved into a smile: 'Well, sometimes you have to tear something down to build something better.'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone who stuck through this story along the way!
> 
> Please subscribe to the [series page](http://archiveofourown.org/series/661424) if you want to be notified when I post more related to this.


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